


Of Earthly Wants

by maevewren



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anal Sex, Angst, Bitchy Kate Argent, California, Dementia, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Mystery, Oral Sex, Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Rain, Rebecca AU, Rich Derek Hale, daphne du maurier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-07-30 11:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 84,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevewren/pseuds/maevewren
Summary: Stiles is killing time as the personal assistant of rich, bratty Kate Argent when he meets the mysterious Derek Hale, who may or may not be obsessed with his dead wife.ORThe Rebecca AU nobody asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!! My very first fic, here we go...
> 
> Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier is a delightful 1938 mystery/love story that I have read a billion times. I couldn't resist making a Sterek AU out of it. I will be pretty faithful to the original story, but reserve the right to deviate wildly on the specifics. 
> 
> Since this is a mystery I can't tag too much without spoiling it, so if anything bad happens I will put warnings in the chapter end notes.
> 
> I will update as often as possible, usually AT LEAST once per week.
> 
> Title comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem "Haunted Houses"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my wonderful beta [LarryOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarryOn/pseuds/LarryOn)
> 
> NOTE: Kate displays some disordered eating behavior in this chapter (nothing graphic). It's the first paragraph of the third section if you want to skip.

“Holy shit, that’s Derek Hale.” Kate lowers her sunglasses, sliding them all the way down with one dramatic curl of her finger, and lets her mouth hang open. “He IS fucking hot, isn’t he?”

Stiles looks up from where he’d been spreading out a fresh towel on Kate’s lounge chair at the posh Palm Springs swim club and follows her gaze. She’s gawking at a very, very beautiful man – the kind of man Stiles doesn’t even register as a fine sexual specimen because he’s so epically out of his league. This dude is CUT, and showing it off in a low-slung pair of black swimming trunks. He has like a 48-pack, and the most delicious spread of chest hair; enough to be super manly, but not enough to be mohair pajamas. Almost as soon as Stiles looks at him, the guy (Derek?) looks up and catches his eye, and holy shit. This level of attractiveness is just not fair. His face is cut from marble – perfect straight nose, perfect cheekbones, tidy but rugged stubble, gorgeous light eyes. Stiles should look away, should probably not make the little “meep” sound he’s pretty sure he just made, especially not with Kate watching. 

Kate never misses _anything_.

“Ohhhh, you like that, don’t you?” She cackles with mean delight and reaches out to smack Stiles’ left butt cheek. “I can’t blame you. He’s gorgeous. I’d be all over that right now if it wasn’t for everything I’ve heard about him. I’m shocked he’s here, actually.” She pushes her sunglasses back up, flips her long, honey-colored hair over her shoulder, and plops down onto the lounge chair Stiles has just prepared for her.

“Hon, can you find the waiter? Actually, can you just go to the bar? I’m feeling like a vodka tonic, two limes. Thanks, babe.” She whips a magazine out of the bag Stiles packed for her that morning before they left the hotel to come to the pool. His duties as the personal assistant to a spoiled heiress are so glamorous. The grunt work is nothing compared to the agony of holding his tongue around her, though. He’s had to squander some pretty choice burns, and texting them to Scott later just isn’t the same. If only he didn’t need the money as badly as he does. 

Before he turns to head to the bar, Stiles steals another glance toward where Derek was standing, on the far side of the pool. He frowns when he doesn’t see him, though he’s not sure why. He shouldn’t be staring directly into the sun anyway, he knows better than that.

Kate clears her throat and gives Stiles a look. “Drink, sweetie?” 

“Right, on its way.” Stiles shuffles out, internally reassuring himself that someday he won’t have to answer to people like Kate Argent. Hopefully.

*****

Three cocktails later, Kate brings up Derek again.

“So, you didn’t ask me to tell you what I’ve heard about the guy. You must be curious, given the way you were salivating over him.” She smirks and seems to have forgotten her own obvious gawking.

By now, after nearly a whole summer’s worth of getting paid to be Kate’s servant/nanny/best buddy, Stiles knows what she wants to hear, how she wants him to act. She needs him to go into gossipy gal pal mode now, his least favorite. Kate talks shit about every single person on earth, it seems, oblivious to her own failings. The woman is 32 and does nothing more substantive than shop, drink, and lay around next to fancy pools in different pretty places all over the world. 

“No, you didn’t,” he says. “You gonna spill? And I was not salivating. I’m slightly more of a realist than that.”

She smiles, pleased with his self-deprecation. More than a few times this summer, he’s turned more heads than she has, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed by her.

“Well. I don’t know how much of this is accurate, but the dude has some serious shit going on. First, apparently his entire family died in a car crash when he was a teenager, so he’s been trying to carry on the family legacy or whatever all by himself ever since.”

“Family legacy?”

“Yeah, I guess the Hales were basically the royalty of some shit town up north, until they all died anyway. He’s richer than god, of course, because I’m sure he inherited everything. I think there’s like a foundation or something and he probably has to deal with it?” She shudders slightly at the thought of committing herself to public service like that. “Anyway, so if that wasn’t enough to fuck him up, he got married to some ridiculously gorgeous model or something and then _she_ died.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes. He’s feeling bad for this guy, and bad about dishing about his personal pain like this, like it’s a reality TV show.

“Yeah. Everybody was talking about it for a while.” She takes a long pull of her drink. “But you know what a dead wife means?” She smiles at him, bright white veneers on display, her eyes sparkling.

Stiles tries not to cringe too obviously, knowing where this is going. But he’ll play along.

“Uh…total control of the remote?”

Kate snickers and snaps her fingers at a passing waiter. “Har har. You know what I’m getting at. That ass is ELIGIBLE.”

“Didn’t you say earlier that all the shit in his past is like a deterrent or something?”

Again, that wicked gleam in her eyes. “Have you ever known me to be deterred by anything, Stiles?”

This is going to get embarrassing. He just knows it.

*****

The next day they’re at breakfast at the hotel, Kate pushing some fruit around on her plate while she whines about how much better the food was at the last resort. He remembers her saying the same thing at _that_ resort, too. It’s not like she ever really eats, anyway. Sometimes he lets her buy his Adderall off him at $20 a pill, saying it takes her “naughty cravings” away, when what she really means is that it allows her to go twelve straight hours without ingesting any wasteful non-alcohol calories. 

Halfway through Kate’s second Bloody Mary and Stiles’ second plate of pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausage, French toast _and_ regular toast, extra butter, Kate kicks Stiles swiftly in the shin and mutters “Incoming!” at her plate, lifting her left shoulder slightly in the direction of the entrance. Ever slick and covert, Stiles whips his entire body around to scan the room for whatever she sees. She groans and hisses simultaneously, reaching out to yank him back around. But now he’s seen what she saw. Derek’s here.

Unfortunately, his torso is covered this time. But it’s covered so well, in a perfectly tailored white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display his thick, corded forearms, so nicely tanned and with JUST the right amount of manly, manly hair on them. The shirt looks both utterly effortless and un-fussy and wildly, unbelievably expensive. Ditto for the slim-fitting navy pants, and his goddamn haircut while Stiles is at it. He’s projecting this air of totally casual grace without a trace of vanity, and it’s the hottest fucking thing Stiles has ever seen in this lifetime.

And he’s staring. With Kate laughing now, pulling on his sleeve and tsk-tsk’ing him.

“Baby, stop eating him with your eyes. Turn around, you’re starting to embarrass me.”

That startles Stiles out of his sexiness-induced reverie and he spins back around so violently that his chair tips all the way over and dumps him onto the ground, on his side. Kate’s full on cackling now and taking pictures with her phone. “So smooth,” she taunts, most definitely not getting up to help him. 

Stiles tries to right himself, but the awkward angle at which he fell is making it really difficult to get up, which is causing him to flail and wave around like a drunk seagull in a rat trap. If that’s a thing. 

“That looked…uncomfortable.”

A velvety smooth voice, not too deep, comes from above, accompanied by the sight of a well-manicured man’s hand. He’s offering it to Stiles to help him up, but it takes a moment to process. First of all, Stiles isn’t used to any reaction to his clumsiness other than straight-up ridicule; this “help” business is confusing. Second, Stiles is potentially now in a waking coma, body locked into place as he stares above him. The hand is, apparently, accompanied by the rest of the body, including a very, very pretty head. Which is looking at him. And blinking, with what might be confusion (or concern for his mental health).

“Ack! Sorry! This is humiliating. Don’t help me, I’m just going to die here, thank you anyway, goodbye!”

Derek chuckles softly, his lips twitching only just barely, like he’s someone who doesn’t smile much and it feels a little strange. He raises one of his luscious, thick eyebrows and thrusts his hand out a little more forcefully. “This is not a very nice place to die, it smells like processed meat in here. Maybe I can help you get to the gardens outside, you could die there?”

Oh, fuck. He’s not just pretty. He’s, like, cool. Crush accelerated times a million. Sigh.

Stiles grabs his hand, trying to memorize the feeling of his warm palm and strong fingers, and pulls himself up as gracefully as he can (i.e., not very gracefully). 

“I will have you know that the smell of processed meat is my favorite scent. I would wear it as cologne if I could.” He brushes himself off, tries to get his bearings.

Kate pipes up then, an edge to her voice. She’s not part of this conversation and that is just not how she rolls. “Honey, I’ll rub bacon on you every morning if you want, just say the word.” She’s talking to Stiles but looking straight at Derek, who shrinks back a bit from her gaze. She notices, because she’s got a super sense for any kind of weakness, and smirks in satisfaction. This interaction is now about her, or so she thinks – so all is right in her world again.

“Thanks, by the way,” Stiles says, daring himself to look right into Derek’s eyes. His gorgeous, stunning, euphoria-inducing eyes. Jesus. Are they green or gray or hazel or any color with an actual name? Is “Derek’s Eyes” its own color? Yes, Stiles decides, yes it is. His new favorite color.

Under Kate’s attention, Derek’s slightly warm persona from before has chilled, so he just nods once at Stiles and heads over to the buffet. He loads his plate with six hard-boiled eggs and a mound of sautéed spinach and takes it right back out of the dining room without another glance in their direction. Probably going to eat his Muscle Man Special in his room. Fuck, there’s probably somebody beautiful and naked waiting there for him, Stiles thinks. Hope they like eggs.

Kate hasn’t taken her eyes off Stiles since Derek walked away from them, like she’s looking for something in his face and she’s not giving up until she finds it, strangles it, and throws its body into the sea.

“Oh sugar, did your crush not say bye-bye? Probably for the best. They say he’s completely obsessed with his dead wife – nobody wants to compete with a ghost.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and tears a piece of toast in half, dunking it in his coffee just to watch Kate shudder. “Kate, seriously? I’m not, like, stalking the poor grieving widower. And how do you know he’s obsessed, anyway? That seems pretty personal to me. Maybe he’s dealing with it. Not that it matters to me.”

She sips her black coffee primly without breaking eye contact. “Whatever you say, Stiles. Google him if you don’t believe me. His love for her was like legendary, apparently. Hell, maybe you’ll get lucky and find a leaked sex tape or something, too. Actually – if you do, send it to me? I’m so bored with my porn stash, ugh.”

“Listen,” Stiles says, “he could be setting up a shrine made from old clippings of her hair in his room right now and it wouldn’t make a difference. He is not in the same universe of leagues as I am – hell, he might not even be into dudes, you know? This is a pointless discussion. Yes, he’s pretty. He is very, very pretty. So is the sunset. Let’s move on. What do you want to do today?”

“Mmmmm hmmmm, whatever, baby. Can you go find the concierge and book us one of the cabanas so I don’t get too much sun today? My dermatologist is going to kill me if I undo all the laser work we just did. And can you find out if there’s a SoulCycle around here anywhere? I hate being idle.”

Stiles almost chokes on his coffee; it’s a near thing.

*****

Between pleading with the unimpressed concierge to give him someone else’s cabana because they’re all booked and taking a Lyft into town to buy Kate an assortment of bathing suits to try on because she’s “painfully bored” with the ones she brought, Stiles manages to google Derek.

What? It can’t hurt to find some information. It’s no different than reading about a celebrity. Harmless fun.

Well, maybe not fun.

Wife of Wealthy Heir Derek Hale Drowns Tragically

The Short Life of Jennifer Hale, and a Husband’s Heartbreak

Is the Hale Family Cursed?

There are lots of headlines just like this, some hamming it up more dramatically than others, but all amounting to the same thing: Derek lost his wife in a really, really awful way, and it likely fucked him up a whole lot. Guy has suffered, that’s for sure. 

Stiles reads a few of the articles, skims a few others, reads some tweets. He gets the general gist: Derek is the sole living heir of a very, very wealthy family, a family that basically owns a small town called Beacon Hills, northeast of Redding, from which it operates the Healing California Foundation, which pays the medical bills for children with cancer who can’t. Apparently Derek had a little brother named Justin who died of leukemia when he was three, so he’s very involved with the foundation and acts as its Executive Director. All of the articles indicate that he’s extremely hands-on and lives at the family estate in Beacon Hills pretty much exclusively, even though he could afford to live anywhere and hire anyone to do the grunt work for him. 

Great, he’s beautiful, and nice, and funny, and _good_. He just keeps getting more attainable! 

Stiles reads that Derek married Jennifer Blake in a huge, multi-million-dollar extravaganza that was the talk of the tabloids five years ago. Oddly enough, he can’t find any pictures online of the event, although he does manage to find a picture of Jennifer from before the wedding, from an old LinkedIn profile. She’s classically pretty, with pale white skin and nearly black hair, dainty feminine features and great bone structure. Bitch. 

A bitch who drowned in the lake on the grounds of the Hale estate three years ago. Stiles can’t find any official details beyond that, which is also odd; he can usually find anything online. Derek has been morose and strange ever since, the articles say. (Although plenty of sites noted that Derek has always been a little morose and strange.) 

Stiles closes out of the browser on his phone and tells Siri to call his dad. 

“Hey, son. What’s up?" 

“I can’t just call my old man to say hi? Tell him I love him, adore him, worship the ground he walks on?" 

“Stiles, what do you want?" 

“Fine. Fine! I was just wondering if you knew anything about a rich woman drowning in Beacon Hills about three years ago? Part of a big famous family, name’s Jennifer Hale?” 

“Son, do you think that my being the Sheriff of one small town means I know everything about everything that goes on in every small town? Beacon Hills is hundreds of miles away.” 

Stiles waits patiently, and his father sighs. 

“Listen, I don’t know much. I don’t think anyone does. The Hale name is a powerful one and they can, shall we say, _exert influence_ over pretty much anything. As I recall, the family had some pretty powerful lawyers and a PR team controlling the media coverage. You’d have to be inside the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s department to know anything.” 

“Okay, but pops. I know you. Based on what you do know, what do you think happened? How did she drown? And what’s Derek Hale like, do you know anything about him?” 

His dad sighs again and pauses a moment before he speaks. “No, son, I don’t. Why in god’s name are you thinking about this, anyway?” 

“Do I need a reason? Can’t I just be a concerned human being, feeling bad for a lonely widower?” 

“Please don’t act like we’ve never met before. But I’m willing to drop it if you’ll just tell me what you’ve been up to. Where are you, even?” 

“Palm Springs. Kate had a ‘hankering for the desert,’ which I think is code for wanting to drink in a bathing suit instead of regular clothing. Next up will probably be a ski chalet or something so she can drink in wool sweaters.” 

“Son, I don’t understand what you’re doing with her. You graduated _summa cum laude_ from college. You could have a real job, go to graduate school – anything. But you’re choosing to be some rich lady’s pet. Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?” 

Stiles sputters and spits and it takes a moment for him to contain himself. He physically shakes himself off before speaking. “Dad. That is disgusting. Never even mention such a possibility ever again. I promise that I would remain celibate to my dying day before I would tap that.” 

He thinks he can hear his father cringe. “Thanks for the vivid response, Stiles. I get it. But you still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing. Are we going to keep having this conversation?” 

“Dad, stop. I’m only doing this for a few months while I figure out my next move. Believe it or not, my anthropology degree does not open a vast array of enticing career doors. I need to be strategic about what comes next, and in the meantime this is a very easy job that pays well.” 

“But I still don’t understand what she’s paying you for.” 

“Um, basically, I keep her from getting lonely? I make her feel rich? I dunno. I don’t question it much. It’s a job. And not one I will be doing forever.” 

For the fortieth time since they got on the call, his dad sighs and he sounds resigned when he speaks. “Okay, son, you’re an adult and it’s not my place to tell you what to do. But I want to go on record as strongly encouraging you to figure out that next move soon. You have a lot more to offer than this. You could do anything, kid.” 

Stiles smiles, the familiar warmth of his dad’s love blooming in his chest. “Love you too, dad. Now go solve some crimes!” 

The Sheriff chuckles and they hang up. Stiles taps his phone against his thigh as he sits on his hotel bed, thinking. Maybe three months is long enough; maybe it is time to figure out that next move. 

Right after he goes to pick up some bikinis.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to drug use. See the end notes for explanation - contains spoilers!

By the next morning, Kate is determined to get Derek’s attention. On their way to the dining room for breakfast she tells Stiles she remembered that her estranged brother, Chris, lives in Beacon Hills, too. She plans to use this to lure Derek into an unforgettable conversation, by the end of which he will be irreparably under her spell.

Stiles saw a picture of Chris once, so he can’t help blurting out “The silver fox?” He’s temporarily forgotten that Kate does not tolerate the discussion of anyone’s beauty but hers, or the person she intends to bed (since that reflects back on her, too, in her mind).

Kate glares at him as they walk down the hallway, passing all the cute young couples on their romantic getaways and the old geezers in town for golf. He sees in her eyes when she decides to let it drop and wraps her arm around his shoulders, plastering on one of her saccharine grins. 

“You ready to see my charm in action, baby?” She asks him like he hasn’t watched her throw herself on men at least eighty times (to varying effect).

“Born ready, boss.” (He likes to remind her, ever so subtly, that he’s on her payroll.)

There’s no sign of Derek in the chic, airy dining room, and Kate visibly pouts. Now that she’s decided she wants his attention she’s going to focus on nothing else. Stiles steels himself for the inevitable humiliation this will entail for him – both first and second hand.

“Derek!” Kate squeals his name so loudly that three other tables stop what they’re doing to look up at her in alarm. Derek himself has just stepped into the room and freezes, this look on his face like he wonders if he can back out unnoticed. Stiles cringes on Derek’s behalf, because he knows what’s coming won’t be pretty.

Yanking Stiles’ arm with her as she goes, Kate stalks over to Derek, whose face has gone stony. “Derek, oh my god. I can’t believe I didn’t realize this when we saw you yesterday! You live in Beacon Hills, right? My big brother lives there! Can you believe it? Such a coincidence, since it’s such a teensy little place.”

Derek flinches very subtly, no doubt at the insult to the place he’s lived his entire life. The gesture is lost on Kate, who’s too self-absorbed to notice that sort of thing.

“Is that right,” he says stiffly, darting a glance at Stiles, which Stiles might almost describe as pleading. He tries to convey back some sort of apology face, which softens Derek a bit.

“Yes!” Kate claps her hands like a child and hops. “So this means you have to come eat with us, we’re basically family now.” Never mind that he doesn’t even know her name, and doesn’t seem particularly interested in learning it.

Kill me now, thinks Stiles. Just do it. And what is it about this guy that makes him wish for his own death whenever they interact?

Derek starts to refuse politely, but Kate doesn’t care. She grabs his wrist, even as he tenses, and pulls him toward their table saying “No, seriously, you have to. I’m getting so bored with Stiles here. Save me!”

“Stiles?” He looks at him, lifting one sexy caterpillar of an eyebrow as he reluctantly sits down.

“Yeah, uh, it’s a nickname. Don’t ask. My real name is an ugly mess.” Stiles focuses on pouring himself some coffee.

“It really is,” Kate laughs, “I saw his driver’s license once and nearly gagged.”

Derek’s eyes widen as he takes in Stiles slowly, seemingly trying to figure out what his relationship with Kate is, and whether or not he should write him off in the same way he has clearly done Kate. 

“What do you think of Palm Springs, Stiles?” he asks, ignoring Kate.

“Oh, well, you know. It’s very…warm. And dry.” Stiles kicks himself internally for the idiotic reply. He’s just doing backflips to impress this god among men, isn’t he?

Kate reinserts herself. “Don’t listen to him, Derek. I’ve completely spoiled him by now. All he does is luxuriate in the finest hotels day in and day out. I think he stopped appreciating it all a month ago. Most boys his age would cut off their own legs to spend their days laying out in style.” She flips her hair, lowers her lashes. She’s really going all out.

“Wouldn’t that be slightly counterproductive?” Derek asks, dryly.

Kate doesn’t get it, or isn’t listening, and starts blathering on about her favorite spots in town (all pools, stores, and bars, naturally) while Derek squirms, obviously thinking about how to escape. 

“What brings you here, Der? Golf? Relaxation?” At the use of the wildly inappropriate nickname Stiles actually cringes hard, then glances up at the ceiling to plead with any available deity to just make this stop.

“Work,” he says curtly. “Which I need to get back to, if you’ll excuse me.” He stands, turning swiftly toward the door, not even going near the buffet.

“Wait!” she calls. “Der! I’m having a little get-together in my suite tomorrow, inviting some local friends. It will be a blast, you should stop by, at least have a drink with us. We still haven’t dished about Beacon Hills!”

Derek doesn’t even think about it. “I’m sorry, I’ll be out for work all day tomorrow. Thanks anyway.” Then he basically runs out the door, not that Stiles blames him one bit.

“Geez louise,” she drawls. “What a dud. I told you he was a headcase. Probably lost the ability to have a good time when his wife died. Well, his loss.” She waves for a waiter so she can get a cocktail.

“Kate, you’re having a party? Don’t we need to plan that a little further in advance?” Stiles sees his day filled with vapid errands and barked commands. Her wish is his boring and onerous command.

She shrugs. “Well it was a ruse to get his cute little ass into my room, but now that I’ve thought about it I think it’s a great idea. Can you set it up? Just invite all my contacts and we’ll see who shows up, and coordinate with the hotel for a bartender to come set up, and some food. That’s easy enough, right?” The waiter approaches and she orders her drink, then turns back to Stiles, clearly done with the party conversation for now. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks.

There aren’t enough waffles in the world, thinks Stiles, to get him through one more day with this woman.

*****

Because he is a brilliant master planner, Stiles makes the party happen and happen well.  


Everything is set up on the enormous outdoor patio off of Kate’s suite and there are at least thirty scantily-clad rich people peppered around the place. There’s a cute bartender shaking up martinis and muddling limes for mojitos and two waiters wandering around with trays of mini jackfruit tacos and gazpacho shots. The firepit glimmers with flames even though it’s full daylight outside and Kate is milling about in an absurdly tiny crocheted bikini, long silk robe open and flowing behind her.

“Stiles!” she beckons from across the patio. He dutifully strolls over.

“You rang, madam?”

She rolls her eyes. “You called Aidan, right? He’ll be here? Tell me he’s on his way already.”

Aiden is Kate’s newest dealer, seemingly always available to provide her with the Oxy and cocaine she favors. Stiles surmises that Kate spends more on drugs than she does on his salary, which just goes to show that money is wasted on the rich.

“Uh…” Stiles tries to think of a believable excuse, as he most certainly did not call Aidan. He’s the son of a sheriff, for crying out loud. “I can’t remember – I was basically calling everybody I could think of, he might have been in there somewhere. But does it matter? There’s plenty of booze.”

Kate scoffs and yanks her phone out of the pocket of her robe, angrily swiping and tapping to get at Aidan’s entry and call. He answers and she starts sweet-talking him to drive out from L.A. and come party with her, and Stiles walks back over to the bar to get a soda. While he does drink, he’s learned not to do it around Kate; having his guard down is dangerous if she’s within fifty miles. That means he’s been basically dry for the last few months, although that’s been the least of his complaints.

“Hey,” he says to the bartender, who’s doing a pretty good job of pretending not to be bored out of his fucking skull. “You have to do this a lot?”

The bartender smiles for one millisecond. “What’ll you have?”

So it’s to be another day without any tolerable human contact, then. “Uh, just a Coke. Thanks.” As Stiles takes the drink from the blank-faced man, he hears squealing and high-pitched chatter back over in Kate’s direction. Turning around, he sees her hugging a laughing man in a motorcycle jacket who looks like he could bench press Stiles’ Jeep without taking a deep breath.

There’s no way this is gonna be good.

Stiles, internal alerts sounded, heads back over to Kate. It’s not so much that he’s worried about her as he is concerned about damage control. Half of his job, even though Kate doesn’t realize it, is protecting her from herself. Hell, maybe she does realize it. Either way, he’s learned to listen to that little voice in his head where Kate’s decision-making is concerned.

“Hey Stiles!” Kate says brightly when he joins them. “Meet Ennis. He’s my brand new best friend. Can you call Aidan and tell him he doesn’t need to come out after all? And can you hold down the fort for me?”

Yeah, this definitely isn’t good. “Are you going somewhere?”

She smiles, a glimmer in her eyes. “Just for a bit. Be back soon.” She grabs Ennis’s hand, who grins hungrily and follows her back into the suite. After pausing for a moment so she won’t notice, Stiles follows them enough to watch them disappear into one of the empty rooms in the suite.

Stiles sighs and flops down on the nearest sofa. He ardently hopes that Kate knows what she’s doing in there and he won’t have to break down the door like he did once in Monte Carlo. That time she’d cozied up to a guy who’d lured her into her room with the promise of Molly and then tied her to the bed, stolen her diamond bracelet, and climbed out the window. Kate was mostly pissed that she never got any Molly.

Stiles pulls out his phone to text with Scott, check his social media. He’ll probably be here a while.

*****

As the hours pass, the partygoers trickle out and on to other venues for their vices. Normally Kate bullies people into sticking around until dawn, but she’s been locked up with Ennis this whole time. Stiles knows she’s alive – corpses don’t moan – but is pretty ready to kill her himself. It’s possible that he has reached his boredom threshold once and for all.

Eventually, everyone is gone, even the surly bartender and his little folding bar. Stiles can’t hear much beyond murmured voices from beyond Kate’s closed door, so he wagers it might be safe to knock.

“Kate?” he calls.

More murmurs, some laughing, rustling. “What is it, kid?”

“Well, everybody’s gone now, the party’s over. If you’re all good in there I think I’m gonna head out and crash in my room.”

Silence for a moment, then Kate is there, standing at the open door completely naked. Ennis is sprawled back on the bed, the covers over his nether regions. They both look glassy-eyed and out of it.

“Hey, baby,” she purrs, “Wanna join us?”

Stiles keeps his cool, but only because he’s been propositioned like this by her so many times before, just like this, that it’s not even surprising.

“Kate, just like always, you are my boss. I do not shit where I eat, or even in the same vicinity of where I eat. So that’s a hard no, yet again.”

She shrugs lazily. “So why are you interrupting us, then?”

“I just wanted you to know I was heading out. Seems like you’ve got it under control. Text if you need me, okay?” Ennis seems relatively harmless, but you never know.

“Awwww, baby’s worried about mama.” She reaches out and ruffles his hair, stumbling a bit.

“Kate, are you sure you’re fine? Do you want me to get this guy out of here and get you some food, get you hydrated?” She’s had her stomach pumped twice in the last year, he knows, though thankfully it hasn’t happened since he’s been working for her.

“Hey!” Ennis pipes up.

“Oh hush,” Kate says to him without turning around. “Stiles, I am fine. I’ll see you at breakfast, ‘mkay?”

Something doesn’t feel right, but he can’t tell a grown woman what to do. 

“All right, if you’re sure. You!” he calls out to Ennis over Kate’s shoulder. “I have your picture on my phone and I will find you if I have to.”

Stiles heads out to the sound of their snickering.

*****

Kate doesn’t come to the door when Stiles raps on it the next morning, per their usual routine. It’s his job to bang on the door until she can’t ignore him anymore and has to wake up, and then she drags him in to help her get ready. It usually takes a good ten minutes, but it’s been fifteen by now and he’s already on edge because of last night. He gives up and goes to the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he says to the guy behind the counter, “can you call room 108 for me? My boss is in there and…my cell phone is dead.” He’s not going to admit he needs them to call her because she wasn’t responding to him pounding down the door.

“Sure thing,” the guys says, already dialing.

Stiles stands there awkwardly, willing the guy to start talking to someone on the other end. After a few minutes, it’s clearly not happening.

“No answer, sir.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles grits out. Turning back toward his own room he starts muttering. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck do I do now?”

“Stiles?”

He turns back around toward the lobby where an elderly man in an elegant suit is headed his way. He’s got a kind, grandpa face, and Stiles recognizes him from some of the photos Kate’s bored him with: this is her father.

“Oh hey, you’re Kate’s dad, right?”

The man smiles widely, but it feels cold. “Gerard Argent.” Stiles reach out to shake his hand and starts to introduce himself when Gerard cuts him off. “I know who you are, young man. Can we go somewhere more private? We need to talk.”

Yeah, this is definitely really, really bad. Stiles feels apprehension twisting in his gut, his blood running cold.

“Uh, yeah, of course. We can go to my room? I promise no funny business!” It’s a terrible attempt at humor, but Stiles has to try.

Gerard just stares at him. “Your room is fine.” He follows him back down the hall, and then into the room, where they both sit down on the hipster burlap sofa thing right inside the door.

“Stiles, I’m afraid I have some bad news. My daughter won’t be needing your services anymore.”

“Is she okay?” Stiles has a feeling she is very much not okay.

Gerard starts to speak, then pauses. He looks off to the side for a moment before he begins again. “My daughter…has not lived up to her potential, I’m afraid. I’d hoped that she would have gotten everything out of her system by now, but it seems that she is never going to grow up unless I force her to.”

Stiles nods, no idea where this is going.

“I don’t wish to go into the sordid details, but I will say that Kate is on her way, as we speak, to a place where she can…begin to sort out her priorities.”

“Sir?”

Gerard heaves an annoyed sigh. “Goddammit, kid, shouldn’t this be obvious to you by now? My daughter is a fucking junkie and she very nearly died of an overdose last night. I refuse to enable her ridiculous lifestyle and selfish habits anymore, so that means no more partying around the globe on my dime with her gigilo sidekick.” His eyes are angry now.

“Oh my god, sir, I assure you I am NOT-“

Gerard waves his hand and shakes his head. “I do not care. Forget it. All you really need to know is that you’re done with my daughter. I’ve left your final pay at the front desk, along with some papers you need to sign. I trust you will take care of that right away. I need to go back to the hospital and arrange for Kate’s transport to the rehab facility.” To himself he mutters, “For the fifth fucking time.”

“Papers?” 

“Don’t be naïve, Stiles. I’m sure you understood when my daughter hired you that it would be necessary for you to be…discreet. It’s just an NDA and some other formalities. You’re a smart boy, I’m sure – so please take care of it.”

With that, Gerard stands up and leaves, no goodbye. Stiles is stunned, motionless. He never should have left last night. He knew it. Fuck! While he doesn’t exactly care for Kate, she is a human being and he’s not heartless. He didn’t know it was that bad, but maybe he should have.

Feeling heavy and lost, Stiles heads back out to the front desk. He’ll sign whatever Gerard wants; he doesn’t care. They put a stack of contracts in front of him at the front desk and he skims them, just to make sure there’s nothing hinky, then signs and takes the envelope with his final check plus extra for signing the releases. It’s probably enough to get back to his dad’s and pitch in with the groceries until he finds another job. Somewhere.

As he’s turning to go pack up his stuff and wondering if he can convince Scott to come pick him up all the way out here, the desk clerk calls out to him.

“Sir! Excuse me. I just wanted you to know that your room is paid through the end of the month, and the tab is open for any expenses, if you didn’t want to leave right away.”

What the fuck is he going to do all by himself at this luxury hotel in the desert? Maybe he’ll just hang out for a day, get drunk at the bar, and then get Scott to come get him tomorrow. Gives him some time to unwind from all the shit that’s just gone down.

Just then, Derek Hale sweeps into the lobby, in a dark navy suit with a baby blue shirt underneath. He’s talking to someone on the phone, then hangs up, shaking his head to himself. He heads straight to the front desk and Stiles can just hear him ask them if he can extend his stay for another few days due to some unforeseen business issues.

Stiles backs away before Derek can spot him in his current disheveled state and thinks it over. Maybe it won’t hurt to stick around for a little while, the room being paid and all…

“Stiles Stilinski, you are a terrible human being and you are going straight to hell in a g-string,” he mutters to himself as he scurries back to his room to clean himself up.

Yeah, he’s definitely staying. Hell might be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate suffers a drug overdose, although we do not see it or learn any details - it is referenced after the fact. She survives.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter references a child with cancer, see end notes for more detail.

Stiles doesn’t get drunk that night, after all – it feels a little wrong in the wake of what happened with Kate. And he’s never been one for drinking alone anyway. So he orders a shitload of room service and rents a few action movies and goes to sleep early. He’s still just trying to wrap his head around everything that happened in the last couple of days.

When he wakes up and starts to stumble toward the bathroom, he notices a folded piece of paper with his name on it on the desk, which had probably been there since yesterday and didn’t get noticed in the commotion. More subdued threats from Gerard? 

Inside, in very neat, slanted print, it reads: “Forgive me. I was very rude at breakfast yesterday.”

Since Stiles hadn’t been at breakfast yesterday, too busy being called a gigolo by his addict employer’s geriatric father, this note must be from the day before that, and referring to Kate’s disastrous attempts to woo Derek in the dining room. So this has to be from Derek. But why?

That’s when Stiles realizes that the card doesn’t say “Stiles” – it says “Mieczysław’ – his actual name. Spelled correctly, which no one outside his family has ever pulled off.

“What the hell,” he mutters wonderingly. Some of Stiles’ closest friends don’t even know his real name, but this guy figured it out? And why did he even bother? 

Stiles folds the card closed and wanders to the shower before heading out for breakfast. It’s much earlier than he would usually be going, since Kate never liked to get up before 10:00 a.m., which she considered very early. But that will work in Stiles’ favor; he isn’t ready to run into Derek again, not until he’s had some more time to pull himself together and calm down.

As he showers, Stiles thinks about Gerard calling his daughter a junkie; is she, really? Stiles always associated that term with strung-out meth heads or heroin addicts selling their possessions for one more fix. But that was naïve of him, probably. Even if junkie is too strong a word for what Kate is, she was obviously barreling down a self-destructive track and needed to be stopped. Stiles feels like he should have been part of stopping her, maybe, even though he knows she wouldn’t have let him stand between her and anything she wanted. Still. He feels like shit. And that’s why he wants to go have a quick, quiet meal, then come back to the room and zone out.

Which of course means that Derek is sitting at a table in the dining room, directly in Stiles’ sightline, as he enters. Derek is looking up when Stiles walks in and their eyes meet, both looking a little startled. Suddenly it hits Stiles that Derek is probably here hours earlier than usual so he could avoid Kate and Stiles and a repeat of the other morning; he won’t know that Kate is gone. Now Stiles feels like he’s intruding somehow and stands still, not sure what to do.

Mercifully, Derek breaks the eye contact and goes back to eating his eggs and reading the paper. Stiles didn’t know people read physical papers anymore; it’s sort of charming. He decides to put on his big boy panties and grabs a plate at the buffet table, piling the first few things in his reach on top. He takes his mountain of home fries, bread pudding, and Danish to a table somewhat near Derek’s, unfortunately the only one not taken, studiously not looking at Derek as he crosses the space.

Each of the tables is prepared with a full pot of coffee, which Stiles can’t wait to get his hands on. Still holding his plate in one hand, he reaches for the pot as he sits down, but the handle is wet and it immediately falls back out of his hand and onto its side, coffee flowing out over the entire surface of the table and dripping down the sides. 

Stiles just stands there. He’s not even surprised, this is really right in line with the way things have been going for him the last few days. He sets his plate on one of the chairs and starts trying to clean up the mess with the un-soiled part of the table cloth, even though it’s not absorbing anything and just pushing the hot coffee around. 

“Stiles,” he hears behind him. “Stiles, just leave it.”

He turns, sodden cloth hanging from his grasp, and sees Derek’s slightly exasperated yet slightly amused expression.

“Just come join me. Please. You can’t sit there.”

Stiles wonders which would be worse; muttering an apology and scampering off to his room in shame, or going and sitting next to a perfectly coiffed Derek with his mountain of mismatched carbs and coffee-stained sweatpants.

He’s hungry, so.

Stiles puts his plate on the table across from Derek’s coffee and paper and doesn’t miss Derek’s slightly horrified expression at his breakfast. So he plops down and starts shoveling it in, just to horrify him a little further. Derek goes back to his paper.

“Listen, I appreciate this, I really do, but you don’t need to let me sit here just to be polite.”

“I’m not being polite,” Derek says in his steady, smooth voice. “I wanted you to sit with me. I would have asked you to, anyway, even without the coffee…situation.”

Stiles is, momentarily, stunned into silence. Derek wanted to sit with him? Whatever for?

Obviously, Stiles’ thought process is all over his face because Derek smiles gently and says, “You don’t believe me. That’s okay. So, where’s your friend?”

Stiles shakes his head. “She’s not my friend. She’s – she WAS my boss. And…she’s left Palm Springs, somewhat suddenly.”

“I hope you got my note? I really did want to apologize for how I acted the other day. I was incredibly rude and I didn’t want you to think it had anything to do with you.”

Derek doesn’t say what it did have to do with, but they both know.

“Honestly, it’s really okay. Kate – my boss, my former boss – she has a certain…way about her. I doubt she even registered you as being rude to her. She’s got her own thing going on. And me, seriously, don’t worry about me. I felt bad for you! She can be sort of, you know, aggressive.”

Derek makes a “hmmm” sound, sips his coffee. “She was your boss? What was your job?”

“Personal assistant. Basically, at the end of the day, a paid friend.”

“I wasn’t aware you could buy friendship. Sounds depressing.”

Stiles shrugs, not sure what to say. He’s not really in the mood to trash-talk Kate right now. It feels wrong. Even if he still doesn’t like her one little bit.

“Well, her lease on this friend has expired, I guess. So I’m back to square one.”

Derek doesn’t probe further, just looks at Stiles with consideration.

“Did I spell your name right?”

The non-sequitur would be startling, maybe, to anyone else, but since Stiles’ brain is just one giant smorgasbord of unconnected thoughts, he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Actually, you did, for which you are to be lauded. No small feat.”

“It’s certainly an unusual name. But lovely, actually.”

“My mother was an unusual and lovely person, so that fits, I guess.”

Derek doesn’t miss the past tense; Stiles can see that in a flash of his eyes. But he knows that Derek knows a little something about dead parents, so he doesn’t probe.

They fall into silence for a moment, Stiles picking at his bread pudding while Derek reads, and it’s oddly peaceful, not awkward. Stiles is so used to being expected to entertain his dining companions that this gentle coexistence, where he doesn’t have to BE anything, feels nice.

Derek breaks the silence. “I take it the end of your employment came on a bit unexpectedly? You don’t seem the type to stay at this kind of place by yourself.”

What type do I seem like, he wants to ask. Mostly he wants to ask if he’s Derek’s type. But he has slightly more control over his tongue than that.

“You would be right about that. Pretty sudden. I find myself with a paid hotel room and no real plan.”

“What’s next?”

“That’s the thing. I have no idea. I’m done with school and very uncertain about actual career prospects. I guess this gig was helping me postpone really thinking about it.”

“I guess that explains it, then.” Derek smiles, popping these dimples that are just unreal.

“Explains what?”

“Why you would even have taken a job like that.” Stiles thinks maybe he should be offended by Derek’s bluntness, but he finds it refreshing.

“Oh, you know. That, and it paid well, and I’m broke, and there wasn’t anything else to do. I haven’t even had a place of my own since graduation. I’ve been alternating staying with my dad and my best friend, whose couch smells strongly of cheese, so I needed an alternative, you know?”

“That does sound…uninviting.”

“Well, I do really like cheese, so it could be worse,” Stiles shrugs.

“It sounds like we’re both pretty much on our own,” Derek says, not looking up from his coffee, which he’s holding with both hands.

Stiles squints at him, makes a face. “Really, dude? Don’t you have, like, an estate or something? Filled with staff?”

Derek looks at him, very seriously. “A house without family can be as lonely as a full hotel. Maybe worse, since the hotel is _supposed_ to be impersonal.” His expression gets a little gloomy, and he looks back down at his drink. He’s probably thinking about his dead wife and the absence she left behind, Stiles thinks.

“Anyway,” Derek looks back up, visibly forcing himself to brighten. “I guess you’re a free agent. Have any plans for the day?”

“Hmmmmm,” Stiles says, “does going back to sleep and then eating my weight in tacos for dinner count? Because if so, then yes, I have some very concrete plans.”

The dimples come back out and Derek chuckles. “Any chance I could persuade you to actually leave the premises?”

What the? Stiles tries not to splutter as he blurts out “Why would you ask?” Smooth, Stilinski.

Derek at least pretends not to notice how jumpy Stiles has suddenly gotten. “It’s just that I have to go spend the day in a place that can be pretty depressing, and some company would be…very much appreciated.” His eyes are guarded, like he expects Stiles to immediately refuse and he wouldn’t even blame him for it.

“Where?” Stiles asks, even though he already knows he’s going to say yes, no matter where it is.

“My family’s foundation – we – well we try to help out sick kids who need it. And sometimes cases get sort of involved or tricky and I find it helps to physically go and be there at the hospital to straighten out the kinks.”

Stiles nods, encouraging him to go on.

“And the whole reason I’m in Palm Springs is for this little girl, June. She’s seven. She’s at Desert Springs getting treated for brain cancer, and I need to go back there today-“

“Woah, woah, hold up dude. You’re asking me to come hang out in a place where kids are dying?”

He frowns. “I seriously hope June isn’t dying. That’s not how I look at it.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say and just waits.

Derek goes on. “I guess, technically, that is what I’m asking you. But it’s more uplifting than you might think. Well ‘uplifting’ might not be the word. It’s sort of more…I don’t know how to describe it. But I wouldn’t invite you if I thought it was going to traumatize you. And I have to prove to June that I have at least one friend. She’s been mocking me relentlessly.”

Stiles stuffs the last few bites on his plate into his mouth while he rolls his eyes at Derek. He swallows and jokes, “I charge for my friendship, remember?”

There’s a dark glint in Derek’s eye as he replies, “I can afford it.”

It’s a good thing Stiles has already swallowed or he would have definitely choked at that. Instead he laughs awkwardly, assures him he was kidding, and tells him he’ll meet him in the lobby in five.

*****

Back in his room to quickly change, Stiles panics. Did he really just agree to go and spend the day with Derek Hale, just the two of them, including several large chunks of time in the car? He’ll be trapped with all that vaguely grumpy sexiness and it will be a miracle from beyond if he doesn’t make a total ass of himself. What if Derek doesn’t talk at all? Stiles will feel COMPELLED to fill the silence, and it won’t be pretty. He grabs his cell phone off his bed, brushes his teeth again, and heads to the lobby, dragging in deep breaths of air as he goes.

Derek is right outside, collecting his car and giving the valet guy a tip. From the guy’s expression, it’s a big one. Then Derek notices Stiles and grins, the biggest smile he’s seen from him yet. It’s so open and warm and disarming. 

“So is this your car, man?” he asks, heading toward the Tesla. “Gotta say, I’m glad you don’t drive something cheesy, like a Camaro or something.”

Derek rolls his eyes as he gets into the car. “Yes, that would be terrible for you,” he says.

Stiles barks out a laugh and clambers in himself. The car is very new and incredibly sleek inside. It would look hilarious next to his Jeep. He tries to picture impeccable Derek in his Jeep and then he laughs even louder.

Derek gives him an odd look. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, still smiling. “I’m just reflecting on the difference between our worlds.”

Derek doesn’t respond, just pulls out of the hotel parking lot and heads toward the freeway. The drive ends up being very short, so before Stiles has even fully relaxed into being alone with Derek in the car, they’ve arrived. 

The hospital smells like they all do: bleach and hand sanitizer, with a faint coffee undertone. No matter how many times he’s been in hospitals since his mom’s illness, the scent always takes him back immediately. He’s a kid all over again, terrified and grief-stricken and so very alone.

Derek must notice the pall that takes over Stiles’ usually animated disposition because he reaches out to place a hand on his back, very gently, asking him if he’s okay as they walk from the parking lot to the hospital doors.

Stiles nods and smiles, though it’s probably more of a grimace, and follows Derek to the elevator and up to the pediatric oncology unit.

“Derek!” A pretty nurse with bright red hair greets him as soon as the elevator doors open, with such enthusiasm and genuine warmth that it’s obvious she knows him well. It’s a strangely effusive greeting for a guy who seems so taciturn and reserved. You’d think they were beer pong buddies from way back.

“Hey, Rochelle,” he says politely. “How’s she doing?”

Rochelle’s smile fades. “Today isn’t a great day, actually. We got some scan results this morning that weren’t what we were hoping for. Her parents haven’t left her room in hours, and they’re a mess. I know the parents aren’t usually your thing, but…” She looks at him hopefully while fiddling with the pocket of her Toy Story scrubs.

Stiles flicks his eyes from Rochelle to Derek, whose face has gone stony, cold like the first few times he saw him. His mouth is a tight line and his arms are crossed over his chest. He closes his eyes, take a deep breath, and says, “Okay, got it. I’ll do my best, Roch. But you know as well as I do that nothing can make them feel better right now.”

She gives him a grateful half-smile and turns to Stiles. “Wait a sec, alert the media! You brought a friend?” She smiles fully this time, at Stiles. “Thank you for proving that this guy isn’t a shut-in loner like I’d feared. He’s got way too big a heart for that.”

Derek’s clearly uncomfortable with Rochelle’s teasing and just gives her a terse smile and steers Stiles back to the elevator, hand on his elbow. Stiles is in a tee shirt, so it’s skin to skin and causes a little frisson of warmth to zing up Stiles’ spine. But it doesn’t last long. Within seconds they’re back on the elevator, headed to the cafeteria in the basement.

“They really know you here, huh? You know, you haven’t even told me exactly what it is you do, or why we’re really here.”

Derek sighs, staring down at the floor of the elevator. “Stiles, can I tell you all about it later? I’m just…kind of struggling to process right now. June was…she’s supposed to be one of the ones who gets better. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that maybe that won’t be true.” He brings the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing in as he breathes slowly. Stiles doesn’t push; he understands.

In the cafeteria, Derek goes straight to the back office, where the lady running the place apparently knows him, too. They have a brief conversation that ends with the lady hugging Derek while Stiles watches from the main part of the cafeteria. It smells like French fries and pizza. Why do hospitals always have such unhealthy food, he wonders.

Derek’s back at his side a moment later. “Ready to go?” Stiles nods. He’s just along for the ride now and doesn’t even ask what they’re up to.

The next stop is the gift shop, where Derek has another hushed conversation with an employee, and then he excuses himself to make a few calls while Stiles sits by the fountain in the lobby. It’s obvious that Derek is working some kind of rich-guy magic for the girl’s family and he tries to make himself invisible while Derek focuses on that. He plays with his phone and wonders what the rest of this day is going to hold.

“Sorry,” Derek sighs as he collapses into the chair next to Stiles. “I feel completely helpless right now and I’m just trying to throw everything I’ve got at the wall to see if anything sticks.” He leans back, massaging his temples, eyes closed. His posture is defeated.

Stiles wants to comfort him, touch his arm or something, but he doesn’t know if Derek would be okay with that. “Please don’t apologize, man. I think it’s great, that you’re doing whatever you can. Um, what ARE you doing, anyway? Please tell me you’re bringing Celine Dion here.” 

“No…wrong demographic.” He smiles. “I’m trying to get Katy Perry or Taylor Swift, but they’re both touring and it’s next to impossible.”

Stiles gapes. “Wait, um, I was kidding! What the fuck! How rich ARE you?”

Derek just raises one eyebrow and gives him a half smirk. “Not rich enough, apparently.”

“And what about everything else, the cafeteria, the gift shop?”

“Eh, just a few things. Nothing, really. Look, I need to get out of here. June's sleeping and I’m not going to mess with that today. I’m sorry this didn’t turn out the way I’d expected. I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

Stiles turns his head just in time to see cartloads of food, flowers, balloons and stuffed animals making their way to the elevator. He has a pretty good idea where they’re headed, and he thinks this guy deserves to stop feeling shitty for a while.

“You could, but I have a better idea. But I’m not going to tell you up front. Do you trust me?”

“Not remotely.”

“Perfect. That will make it more exciting.” 

Stiles stands up and starts walking toward the front doors. “You coming, bro?”

“If you promise to never call me ‘bro’ again, yes.”

“Roger that, dude. How far can that electric car of yours get us?”

“Am I going to regret this?”

Stiles grins widely, happy to see that Derek’s face is a little more relaxed than before; he’s distracted, which was Stiles’ goal. “Only if everything goes according to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A child with cancer is not doing well and may be terminal, though we do not meet her or get any more details.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I said I'd update weekly, but it's been one week and I've posted four times, so...this may go up more quickly than I expected!
> 
> Since I'm writing this AS I post it, I may sometimes have to go back and change something small to accommodate where the story has taken me. So far I've done this once - removing the reference in Ch. 1 to Stiles going to Berkeley. Sorry for any confusion.
> 
> NOTE: This chapter contains heavy alcohol use. Like lots.
> 
> Once again, a huge thank you to my darling beta [LarryOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarryOn/pseuds/LarryOn)

“I am not letting you drive my car.” 

They’re standing on opposite sides of the Tesla in the hospital parking lot, staring each other down. 

“But if I don’t drive, I can’t surprise you with the destination.”

“Have you ever driven one of these before? Also – we barely know each other. Driving my car is a big step. Actually, I don’t let people I’ve known my entire LIFE drive my car.”

Stiles snorts. “First, the car I drive is older than you are and a manual transmission and falls apart near daily, so if I can handle that I think I can handle your futuristic rich-guy robot car. Don’t I just like push a button and whoosh, I’m there?”

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “What’s second?”

“Glad you asked. Second is how the hell are we supposed to get to know each other if I can’t execute my master plan?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Give me the keys, Hale. Wait, are there even keys?”

*****

Incredibly, Derek does let him drive. Stiles didn’t expect him to relent, but he just really wanted to try the Tesla out. It is pretty fucking cool to drive, he thinks, but nothing can compare to his baby, Roscoe.

It’s a two-hour drive to Barstow, due north, but Stiles just tells him it will “be a while.” If he starts out by telling them they’re going to Barstow, he’s pretty sure Derek will just hurl himself out of the moving car to escape. No, Derek doesn’t know what’s in Barstow, so he won’t understand why he needs to be there until he’s there.

Stiles can barely hear the music in the car, it’s so quiet, so he figures out which button will turn it up and then starts cracking up. Derek’s turning vaguely pink and muttering “shut up” as “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful” by One Direction gets louder and louder in the car’s interior. Stiles can’t stop laughing, but he assures Derek that there’s no shame because “Harry Styles is the MAN.”

As they drive through the dry, hot Southern California landscape, Derek doesn’t ask where they’re going. It surprises Stiles that someone as buttoned-up as Derek seems to be would actually just go along with something like this, getting dragged to god-knows-where by a total stranger he knows almost nothing about. But he seems relaxed, just sitting there and watching the outside fly by, the air conditioning cool and soft on their bare arms. Stiles really, really tries to watch the road and not stare at Derek’s forearms. He wants to run his fingers through the perfect inky black hairs, to tug at them and then slide his fingers down to join Derek’s as he pulls his body toward him…

Stiles shakes himself to stop that train of thought and avoid an inappropriate car boner. 

“Hey, mind if we stop?” Stiles asks. “I need to pee and I think we need road snacks. It’s been a while since breakfast.”

“Two types of bread and potatoes didn’t give you the fuel to make it through the day? I’m stunned.”

Stiles shakes his head while sighing, flicking on the turn signal as he heads onto the exit ramp. “Dude, my bread and potatoes bucket may be full, but my Combos and Butterfinger buckets are woefully empty.”

Derek actually shudders. “They still make Combos?”

“Oh, you bet they do. And you’re going to have some.”

“I’d really rather not vomit in this car, it’s pretty new.”

They pull into a gas station and park, the flashy car looking a little ridiculous next to the dirty pickups and old Japanese sedans. Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek’s last comment while he climbs out of the car and Derek follows, pulling on some sunglasses. Fuck, he looks hot in sunglasses.

“You have to have at least one junk food pleasure. And notice I did not say ‘guilty’ pleasure because food is never a crime and I reject any and all food-based shame.”

“I mean, you would kind of have to,” Derek says, holding the mini-mart door open for Stiles to pass through. There’s a burst of frigid air and that unmistakable mini-mart perfume of candy and cigarettes. Derek pulls off his sunglasses in a smooth, seamless gesture that Stiles envies. He stands there for a moment, then reluctantly offers, “I do like Bit ‘o Honey.” 

“Are you fucking shitting me right now. Are you 85 years old.”

A big dimple-bursting smile comes out and Derek looks almost shy. “Have you tried them? They’re actually really good. Like caramel and peanut butter, with a sort of Now and Later-like texture.”

“Derek, that sounds foul. But of course I’ll try it.”

They find their snacks, including Derek’s weird old-fashioned candy and an extra-large bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, hit the restrooms, and head back out to the car. 

“I’m going to let you drive your car now,” Stiles says, “because we’re just staying on the same road for a while and I can tell you when to exit.”

“Gee, thank you,” Derek says dryly as they get back in. Stiles actually just wants to focus on the Cheetos without worrying about getting red dust on the steering wheel.

They don’t talk much; the music is loud, they’re munching (and Stiles loved the candy, much to his dismay). It’s just sort of easy and normal, like they’ve done this a million times before. Eventually their exit approaches and Stiles gets animated, hopping up in his seat and whooping and crying, “This one, this one, do it!”

Derek gives him a look like he’s a total weirdo as he eases off the freeway into the Central Valley town. He sighs, then says, “We are in Barstow.”

“You can read, I’m very proud.”

Derek huffs. “WHY are we in Barstow, Stiles?”

Stiles smiles knowingly. “To have a fuckload of fucking fun, that’s why.” He guides Derek to their exact destination.

*****

Stiles directs Derek to a spot just outside the actual town, one that feels pretty rural and features little more than dry fields and squat wooden buildings. They pull up in front of a building that’s in slightly better shape than the rest, a hanging sign out front that reads “The Rusty Roadhouse.” Stiles sighs a sigh of deep satisfaction as they park.

Derek is squinting at the place incredulously. You can’t see through the windows, but they’re dotted with over a dozen un-lit neon bar signs. There’s a porch with high tables and no chairs, and the place looks empty.

“We just drove two hours to come to a deserted…saloon?” Derek’s expression is hilariously confused.

“No, no, my friend. We just drove two hours to come to The Rusty Roadhouse, which is an experience unique among all experiences. We’re going to walk through those doors and not come back out until you’ve had many, many hours of unbridled fun.”

Derek is at a total loss for words, just sort of gaping at Stiles.

“I’m not even that much of a drinker,” he says, “not since college.”

“Oh, today you are a major drinker. A binge drinker, even. You ready?” Without waiting for assent, Stiles gets out of the car and hurries up the steps of the porch, yelling, “Yo Lyds, open up!" Derek follows a few paces behind, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He looks adorably uncertain.

There’s some banging from inside, and a few shouted voices that are hard to make out, and then the front door gets yanked open by a petite redhead with a sour expression. She’s boring a hole through Stiles’ face with her eyes, one hand on her hip.

“Stiles Stilinski, what the fuck are you doing here?” But she stands back to let them inside, her eyes traveling over Derek curiously.

“I am very happy to see you, too, my dear. Is Scott back there? Oh, hey, fuck – this is Derek. I brought him here to cheer him up. Derek, this is my ex-girlfriend and soul sister Lydia Martin.” Stiles gestures between them by way of introduction.

Lydia purses her glossed lips and rolls her eyes. “Is it absolutely necessary to introduce me to everyone as your ex-girlfriend? Our relationship lasted less than a month.”

Stiles grins and says, “100% necessary.”

Sighing, Lydia turns to Derek. “Hello, Derek. Welcome to the Roadhouse. Given your choice of traveling companion, I can’t promise you’ll have a good time here, but we’ll do our best.” In a much louder voice she bellows, “HONEY, GET OUT HERE.”

A woman at least thirty years Lydia’s senior, with a David Lynch haircut and piercing blue eyes, comes out from what appears to be the kitchen, behind swinging doors.

“Lyds, kitten, who have we here? Hey, Stiles.” She addresses Stiles like he’s an inevitable nuisance, a tiny house spider. She wipes off her hands with the dish towel she’s holding and sticks one out to Derek.

“April Gale,” she states as they shake hands. Stiles cuts in to offer more detail, enthusiastically.

“April was Lydia’s professor at MIT, for – what was that class called, Lyds?”

“Nonlinear Dynamics and Chaos,” Lydia says coolly.

“Yup, that. And they fell madly in love and ran away from Boston together because April wasn’t allowed to date a student and Lydia was bored, anyway, and now they run this place.”

Derek says, “That’s a…surprising trajectory.”

Lydia shrugs. “Not really. It was time to do something different, so we did.” She inspects her manicure and acts like it’s perfectly logical to go from mathematics in Cambridge to draught PBR in the middle of (basically) nowhere.

Clearly done with the topic, Lydia asks April to make enough lunch for all four of them, gives her a quick kiss, then motions for the boys to sit down at the bar. As they settle onto their stools, Stiles asks, “So Scott’s not here?” He turns to Derek and explains, “Scott’s my best friend, the one with the cheese couch? He lives around here, too, with his girlfriend. He’s still finishing up school but he can usually be found here.” 

“He said he’d come work tonight’s shift at the bar,” Lydia says as she gingerly wipes down the already-clean bartop in front of them. “He’s actually gotten a little better. He can remember three drink orders at a time now.”

“Wow.” Stiles seems genuinely impressed.

Lydia and Stiles catch up on hometown details, as they’re both from the same place up north. Lydia asks after Stiles’ dad and he checks up on all their mutual friends. Derek sips slowly at the beer Lydia had set in front of him when he sat down, just quietly taking it in.

Eventually April brings out a tray of sandwiches, French fries, and a big bowl of salad that Stiles scoffs at as he grabs a handful of fries. Lydia smacks his hand and tells him to wait for a plate.

Stiles notices that Derek is eyeing the food like it’s going to bite him, so he nudges him with his elbow. “Don’t be scared, now, YOU are going to eat THEM.”

Derek smiles, but it’s strained. “I don’t…usually eat bread. But it’s fine,” he adds hastily, looking at Lydia, not wanting to offend.

“Honey,” she says, flinging her towel over her shoulder, “You’re in Barstow now. In Barstow we eat bread.” She fixes him with a level stare that brooks no argument.

“You heard the woman,” Stiles says. “Carb up, man.”

*****

Amazingly enough, Derek eats not one but two sandwiches, and a respectable quantity of fries, with Stiles giving him encouraging smiles throughout. They’ve also made it through two rounds of beer and are starting in on the third when Scott bangs through the front door.

“STILES!” He yells, running at the man, and they meet in the middle in a crushing hug that lasts twice as long as any normal hug. Scott’s eyes are a little misty.

“Shit, is it four already?” Lydia asks, looking up at the mirrored Michelob clock on the wall behind her. “Shit.” She whirls back around and points at Scott. “You, with me. We’ve gotta bring some bottles in and help April get all the glasses out. And I still haven’t wiped off the high tops. Enough with the brotherly reunion, you’ve got all night.”

Derek looks vaguely alarmed at the thought of staying at the bar all night as Stiles settles back onto the barstool next to him. He clinks their newly-full glasses together and winks. “That’s right, sir. We are just getting started. Gird your liver.”

Lydia and Scott head into the back, quietly bickering at each other, leaving Derek and Stiles alone for the first time since they arrived. Stiles feels a little shy, suddenly, and starts tracing patterns on the bar with his pointer finger, not looking at Derek.

“So you’ve known these guys a long time,” Derek says to break the silence. “That’s cool.”

Stiles takes a drink, swallows. “Yeah, I’m lucky, honestly. We all could have spread out after high school, and I guess we kind of did for a while, but we all seem to gravitate back into the same general area. Maybe nobody else can stand us,” he jokes.

“So if you spread out for a while…did you go somewhere else for college?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I went to Yale, but I’m not really an East Coast kinda guy.”

Derek actually does a spit take. “Yale?” He sounds shocked.

“Hey!” Stiles says with his brow furrowed, “I resent that reaction.”

“No, no,” Derek says hurriedly, “I’m not surprised you WENT there. I’m just surprised that you went from there to…well, what you were doing when we met.”

Stiles sighs. “Oh my god, have you been talking to my dad? I get it, wasting my life, yadda yadda. But it’s not like I was planning on doing it forever. I just needed to do something that required very few brain cells while I…recalibrated, or something.”

“And have you?” Derek asks.

Stiles is staring ahead at a cluster of old California license plates on the back of the bar. “No,” he says after a while. “I’m just as uncalibrated as ever.” He keeps staring for a moment, then turns to Derek. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Where did you go to college?”

“Stanford. But roughly a thousand years before you went to college, I’m guessing.”

“Oh come on, dude. How old are you? You don’t seem that much older than me.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s meant to comfort me or insult me. But. I’m 34.”

Stiles finds this incredibly attractive, though he can’t say why. He’s never been with anyone more than a year or two older; maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s the way Derek just seems more…established. Less like a confused kid stumbling in the dark. There’s definitely something very commanding about his presence. It makes Stiles feel a little inferior, and a lot aroused. He’ll examine that later.

“And…your job has something to do with rescuing children in peril.”

“Hmmm.” Derek thinks about it. “I don’t do much rescuing. Wish I could. Mostly, it’s…trying to make a bad situation less bad, in whatever way I can.” It looks like he’s remembering June just then; his expression shutters and he takes a long drink, eyes closed.

“No more bad situations today, nuh uh. How about this? When was the last time you got truly, properly wasted?”

“Wasted?” he asks distastefully.

“WASTED.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows with a mischievous smile.

Derek chuckles. “Honestly, not since before…well, not in a very long time. I live alone, remember?”

“I refuse to believe you don’t have friends, with dimples like that.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s blushing a tiny bit. “I do have friends. And a little sister. But they all have their own lives, and I’m usually working, and we don’t exactly have a _roadhouse_ in Beacon Hills.” He smiles and sips, well on his way to finishing the third beer.

“Sister! Jealous. I have no siblings. Well, no blood siblings – Scott is absolutely my brother. How old is she? What’s her name?” Derek seems fairly open right now and Stiles is determined to get as much intel as he can.

“Her name is Cora. She’s a little older than you, probably? She’s 26.”

“I’m 23.” Stiles doesn’t miss the faint grimace that draws from the other man. “What’s she like?”

Derek smiles to himself. “We’re not that close. She thinks I’m…’stiff.’ And that I act like an old man.”

“Wellllll…the first few times I met you….” Stiles ducks as Derek tries to swat him. “Whatever! It’s okay – I’m determined to crack open that shell and get at the you-yolk inside.”

Derek looks skeptical. “Please never say ‘you-yolk’ again.”

“You’re right. That was gross.”

For a moment they’re just sort of looking at each other, amused, when a brunette in a biker jacket bursts through the door yelling for Scott. She startles at the sight of the two men.

“Stiles!” She exclaims. “You’re here! Oh my god, I’ve been meaning to call you!” Within seconds she’s got her arms wrapped around him, whispering something in his ear.

“Derek,” Stiles says as he pulls back from the embrace, “this is my beautiful friend Allison, Scott’s other half. Also, Kate’s niece.”

“But nothing whatsoever like Kate,” she interjects, shuddering.

“So you heard, huh?” he asks her. “I met your grandpa. Charming fellow.”

Allison tucks a strand of long dark hair behind her ear and looks weary. “Yeah, I don’t actually talk to him, really. He and my dad fell out a long time ago.”

“Ugh, Kate showed me pictures of your dad, he is so HOT –“

Allison clamps her hand over Stiles’ mouth. “Nope! Shut the fuck up.” Not moving her hand, she angles herself toward Derek. “Hello, Derek. It’s nice to meet you, though I question your choice of company.” She yanks her hand back when Stiles licks it.

“Anyway.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry I got you that job. I hadn’t heard from her in forever when she texted asking if I knew anyone, and-“

“Ally, Ally, stop. It’s totally fine. I just hope she’s okay, honestly.”

Derek’s been watching quietly but raises an eyebrow at that, catching Stiles’ eye.

“Whatever, I’m done with my family’s bullshit,” she says. “Where’s Scott? I had the night off practice and I thought I’d help him tonight. You know how he gets when there’s a rush.”

“Allison is an Olympic athlete,” Stiles tells Derek proudly. “Archery. Bronze medal at Rio for the women’s individual event. Going for gold in 2020, baby!” He raises his palm to high-five her and she smiles, humoring him with a soft clap.

“Wow,” Derek says, “That’s very impressive.”

Allison shrugs off her jacket, revealing a skimpy tank top underneath. She only exploits her hotness where tips are involved, so tonight she’s pulled out all the stops, including jeans so tight they look painful.

“If I wore those jeans I’d be sterile in five minutes,” Stiles observes. Allison sneers at him and then starts pouring the three of them Jaegar shots while simultaneously barking for Scott to get his ass out there. Derek is looking at the shots with pure trepidation.

“It’s okay, old man,” Stiles says as he nudges the shot glass closer to Derek. “Tonight, we are young.” He throws back his own shot and yelps, shuddering. “Good FUCK that is disgusting.”

Derek sighs in a put-upon way before downing his own shot, much less theatrically. Allison drinks hers, then slams the glass down while looking carefully at the two men, obviously trying to get a feel for the situation and their relationship to one another. Scott appears and kisses her with a dramatic dip while she bats him away, laughing.

“Off me, asshole! This place opens in an hour and the bar is nowhere near ready. Have you prepped your garnishes? I don’t see any, and you remember last time with the lemons.”

Scott nods solemnly and disappears into the kitchen as Allison says, “Another shot, gentlemen?”

*****

It’s four hours later and Stiles and Derek are both very, very drunk. The place is packed, the jukebox is roaring and the floor is covered in peanut shells. Allison, Scott, and Lydia are in nonstop motion behind the bar, pulling beers and shaking cocktails and occasionally bellowing orders to April in the kitchen.

Stiles and Derek ceded the bar to paying customers long ago and have been bouncing back and forth between the porch, which is only slightly less crowded, the side room with the dartboards and pool table, and the hallway to the restrooms. Occasionally they plop themselves down there against the wall, just to sit for a minute. They talk about everything, but nothing heavy, just music, and sports, and books, and places they’ve been and places they want to go.

Derek has come alive, Stiles thinks. He’s nothing like the rigid, formal guy he met in Palm Springs, or the reserved, quiet guy from their car ride. He never stops smiling and it’s this huge, electric thing, with the dimples and bright white teeth and sparkling eyes. He laughs easily and makes a myriad of adorable facial expressions. His hair has broken out of its neat gel mold and looks soft and tousled, a few locks falling over his forehead. He’s a little sweaty around the edges, it being a hot night, and it’s all Stiles can do not to lean in and take a deep whiff of his temple. And maybe nuzzle behind his ear, and take his earlobe gently between his teeth…

They’re sitting in the hallway right now, Stiles’ right thigh in contact with Derek’s left, given how close the quarters are. They keep having to rearrange themselves and move their legs as people step over them to get to the bathrooms. Once or twice Lydia has yelled at them for creating a fire hazard, but they just smile at her and wave and she scowls and disappears.

“You were right,” Derek says, his head leaned back against the wall. “This IS fun.”

Stiles is triumphant. “See? I know how to deliver.”

Derek nods, smiling, his eyes closed. It almost looks like he’s going to take a catnap in the hallway. But he starts talking again.

“Fun is not really part of my life. Hasn’t been in a long time. It’s been the opposite of fun, actually.” He goes quiet again, but Stiles just waits.

Derek opens his eyes and turns so that he’s looking directly into Stiles’. “My past is…painful. I’m pretty fucked up about it.” It sounds almost pleading.

“Okay,” Stiles says gently. “I get that. But it’s the past, right? You don’t have to be trapped in it.” He hopes he’s not saying the wrong thing, or seeming to imply that Derek should forget about his wife; that’s not what he means.

Derek turns back to face forward, closing his eyes again. After a moment he says. “Maybe. I don’t know. But tonight is good. Tonight…I’m just here.”

Stiles makes a small contented sound of assent.

Derek looks at him again. “I don’t think you realize what a big deal that is. So thank you.”

Stiles’ first instinct is to break the heavy moment by cracking a joke, like maybe how it’s just the bread talking and all Derek needed all along was carbs. But he resists that urge and just smiles slowly, looking back at Derek. “You’re welcome.”

After a few beats of silence, their eye contact never breaking, Derek reaches out and lightly brushes a finger along the top of Stiles’ cheekbone. “You have very long eyelashes,” he says. “I think I would call them…pretty.”

A warm flush spreads throughout Stiles’ body; he’s too drunk to figure out whether Derek is flirting with him or just saying whatever pops into his head. He’s so drunk, in fact, that he’s tempted to just lean forward and place the lightest, smallest kiss on Derek’s lips – 

“Stiles!” Lydia barks from where’s she magically appeared in front of them. “How many fucking times do I need to tell you that you absolutely cannot sit here. It’s a Friday night, I have my hands completely fucking full, and you showing up out of nowhere to bring the Fire Department down on me was not on my to-do list. Get. Up. Now.” She’s glaring and she means business.

Stiles feels a little relieved that the spell between him and Derek has broken; if he ever gets to kiss him, he thinks, he wants to be stone cold sober so he can remember every detail. For his part, Derek is looking a little sheepish as he stands up with Stiles. They follow Lydia out of the hallway and she makes them swear they won’t go back there again, not even to go to the bathroom. “You lost that privilege,” she snaps.

“Well, then,” Stiles says as they survey the packed room. “Want a beer?”

Derek shrugs amiably. “Why not?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too objectionable in this chapter, I don't think. There's negativity around Stiles being a bartender, which is NOT to be inferred as a slam on bartenders - it's just that it's a bad fit for Stiles, in this story.
> 
> If any of you are reading along, say hi in the comments! :)

They wake up groaning and smelly from different spots in Scott’s living room; Stiles on the sofa, Derek on the floor nearby. (Stiles tried to get him to take the sofa, but Derek had refused, claiming to be afraid of its scent reputation, but really he was just being polite, Stiles knew.) Startlingly bright sunlight is flooding into the room, making it hot and almost hard to see.

“Whhhhhhhhhhhhy,” Stiles moans, eyes still closed, hands on his face.

Derek doesn’t respond, but Stiles feels a pillow hit his chest seconds later.

“I know, I know,” Stiles says, understanding perfectly what the pillow toss meant. “I’m an evil mastermind and I have destroyed us.”

Derek just grunts and Stiles resumes his moaning, curling up into the cushions of the old couch. “Cheeeeeeeese, why does it smell like cheeeeese,” he whimpers softly.

“MORNING!” Allison comes bounding in, a wicked grin on her face. “HOW YOU BOYS FEELING?” She cackles and yanks open the blinds so that even more light pours in.

Stiles peers at her through one eye, frowning. “Why you look so fancy this early in the morning?”

Allison looks down quizzically, then back up at Stiles. “Um, I’m wearing jeans and a tee shirt? And it’s one in the afternoon?”

“SHIT.” Derek jerks upward, looking panicked. “It’s ONE?” His hair is completely smashed up on one side and his stubble is thick and wild. Stiles wonders what it would look like as a full, bushy, black beard, and how it would feel up close.

“Yup,” Allison says breezily. “Did you expect to wake up earlier when you guys were still partying hard at sunrise? Even April was impressed.” April can outdrink them all.

“I do have some recollection of that, yes,” Stiles says weakly, pulling himself up to a sit as he draws an afghan around him.

“I think my memories cut off somewhere around 3:00 a.m.,” Derek ekes out as he tries to fumble into his jeans under his own blanket. He slept in his boxers, Stiles can’t help noting. Sexy.

“Well, I’m feeling extremely generous today, and Scott is helping out that farm vet up the road for the day, so you guys want me to make some pancakes or something?” Allison offers.

“Absolutely!” Stiles says at the same time Derek shakes his head violently, then grabs at it and cringes, and says “I’m sorry, we can’t, I have to get back, shit shit shit.” He’s reaching around wildly for his shoes with a deep frown etched into his face. He looks like he did before their day together yesterday, all tightly wound and grim. It makes Stiles’ heart ache.

“Thanks anyway, Allie,” Stiles says with a smile. “This guy’s important and I guess his time as the Drunken Crown Prince of Barstow has come to an end.”

Allie gives Stiles a warm look, then glances inquisitively at Derek, who is a ball of motion, then back to Stiles. He can feel her affection for him, and her concern about what he might be getting himself into, in her expression. He nods, and it’s like they’ve had a full conversation. 

“Then I’m heading to practice early. Just lock the door behind you?” Stiles nods. “And Derek,” she says, waiting until he looks up and into her eyes. “It was a genuine pleasure to meet you.” Derek blushes, the tension in his shoulders settling a bit, and says, “Same to you. Thank you for everything. And thank the others for us?”

Stiles really shouldn’t get so excited by the way he said “us.” But it feels…nice. He wants to hear it more, but that’s probably an absurd fantasy. They’re going to rush back to Palm Springs and then Derek is going to rush off to wherever his next stop is, and that’ll be that. 

“I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Al,” Stiles mumbles, unable to hide the resigned sadness at the back of his voice. Derek gives him an odd look that flashes by so quickly Stiles wonders if he imagined it.

“Later, Stiles,” she says gently. And then she’s gone and the two hungover men are alone in someone else’s living room, each of them wrestling with something the other can’t see.

“Sorry to be so abrupt,” Derek apologizes, his voice still rough from just waking up. “I should have mentioned yesterday that I was supposed to be back in Beacon Hills by dinnertime tonight, for a fundraiser that’s really important.” He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. “Now there is no way I can get back to Palm Springs and then to Beacon Hills and into a tux by 7:00 p.m.”

Not allowing himself the luxury of picturing Derek in a tuxedo, Stiles thinks for a moment. “Well, do you have to go back to Palm Springs? Couldn’t you just head north from here, have the hotel send you your stuff?” He doesn’t add that Derek can probably just re-buy everything he left there, anyway.

Derek looks confused. “But all of your stuff is down there, too. And you said the room was paid for a while yet. Weren’t you planning on going back?”

Stiles shrugs and picks at a loose piece of yarn on the afghan. “Honestly, I was only going to stick around for a day or two more. I don’t have a way to get around down there and sitting in a hotel ordering room service does get old eventually. Plus, there’s that whole ‘figuring my life out’ thing I need to get going on.” He makes a gesture in the air meant to visually represent his existential crisis.

Derek furrows his brow and frowns in thought. “But then…where were you going to go? How were you going to get out of there?”

Stiles barks a short laugh as he runs his fingers through his messy hair. “Funnily enough, I was going to try and convince Scott to come pick me up and bring me here, so…here I am.” He knows he should sound more like he’s thrilled with the way things turned out and less like someone stole his puppy. But he can’t help it. The thought of parting ways with Derek in mere minutes seriously bums him out.

“Oh.” Derek looks like he’s thinking, staring at the rug. “Yeah, I guess…I guess that makes a lot of sense. But can I at least cover the costs of having your stuff sent to you here? Since it’s my fault you’re not going to get back.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, “I think you’ve forgotten that I kidnapped you and dragged you here. No one to blame but myself.” _Worth it_, he says to himself, thinking fondly of yesterday and last night.

“I insist.” Proper, formal, rich guy Derek is back. Yesterday is a distant memory.

Stiles shrugs again. “Sure, man, whatever. Thanks.”

“Um,” Derek fiddles with his hair, trying in vain to smooth it down. “Sorry about this, rushing off. I should have mentioned the fundraiser yesterday, it’s a really important one-“

“Dude.” Stiles holds up a hand. “Say no more. Go save some kids. I’m probably going to go back to sleep and hopefully not wake up until next Thursday.”

Derek smiles. “Good luck with that. And. You know. Thanks again. I really had fun.”

Stiles can’t handle having a serious moment right now, at all, because if he even tries he’s going to let way too much emotion spill forth. So he just sighs deeply and tells him, “My pleasure, man, and I’d offer to hug it out before you go but I’m pretty sure I smell like the floor of an abandoned brewery that is also a whorehouse and a horse-racing facility.”

Derek, too, seems relieved by the track Stiles has taken and laughs easily. “Thank you for that vivid image. It really helped with my nausea.” 

“I’m here to serve,” Stiles announces as he lies back down, burrowing under the blanket. “Drive safe, and good luck with the life-saving. Make sure to stop by the Roadhouse the next time you’re in town.”

He can’t see Derek’s face anymore because he doesn’t want to. He just hears him quietly say, “Bye, Stiles,” as he walks out of the room and through the screen door out front. Pretty soon Stiles hears the Tesla door slam shut, wheels spinning in the dirt, and then nothing. 

Stiles goes back to sleep.

*****

The weeks pass, summer blending into fall, which tends to be hotter than summer itself in this part of California. Stiles is still in Barstow, still shuffling his feet while he ponders his options, to the growing irritation of everyone around him.

“Stop,” Lydia says one day while he’s in the middle of dusting all the bottles at the back of the bar in the Roadhouse. 

He turns, eyebrow raised, pretending like he doesn’t know what she wants, like he hasn’t been avoiding this conversation since he arrived.

“Yes, my queen?”

Lydia flips her hair in annoyance. “Don’t play dumb with me, Stilinski. Come sit down.” She perches herself gracefully on a bar stool and pats the one next to her.

Stiles heaves a deep sigh as he drops his dust cloth and hops over the bar. It only took him approximately 500 tries before he could do that without injuring himself. Lydia isn’t amused.

“What.” He grits out, petulant like a teenager.

“Oh, cut the crap. I’ve been avoiding this conversation as much as you have, but honestly; what the fuck are you doing with your life?” Her face is hard, but there’s love there, too.

Stiles sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “Lyds…I’m still figuring it out.”

She huffs impatiently. “You graduated, at the top of your class, from one of the best schools in the WORLD, over four months ago. First you were a rich girl’s lackey, now you’re tending bar in an armpit like this?”

“Hey!” he cries. “This is YOUR armpit.”

She nods. “Yes, this is a business that I own and run, which is remarkably profitable, and which I’m doing as a project with my committed partner. We own a house, Stiles. We have dogs. I didn’t do what everyone expected me to do, but I’ve done _something_.” She stares at him expectantly.

“Why do you care,” he asks in a sulky tone, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t see you giving this speech to Scott.”

Lydia coughs out a laugh before attempting to stifle it with her hand. “Seriously, Stiles?” is all she says.

“Look, it’s not unusual to not know what to do with your life when you finish college,” he informs her with a pointed look, since Lydia did not finish college and he always feels a little superior to her over it.

“But you’re not even trying to figure it out,” Lydia insists. “You’re spinning your wheels, you’re caught in the ditch, you’re not calling Triple A – forget it, this metaphor is stupid. You’re stalling. You know it. What are you afraid of?”

Stiles doesn’t answer for a long moment, seriously considering it. Finally, he says, “Lyds, I had a plan for the longest time. I knew what I was going to be when I grew up from the time I was five. And I never questioned it, I just plowed through, got the good grades, built up the resume, kicked ass in college.”

He stops and she nods, urging him on.

“And then when it was time to actually put the whole thing in motion, apply for the FBI internship, go through the screenings, the background check, all of it – I realized I hadn’t actually been interested in that sort of career for a long time. But I hadn’t ever stopped to realize it. So I’d wasted all this valuable time, when everyone around me was thinking about what they wanted to do with their lives, on this treadmill. And then I turned off the treadmill and flew across the room and now I’m just sitting there, nursing my hurt tailbone.”

“Your metaphor was even more tortured than mine.”

He laughs. “Yeah, well. It fits, I guess.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Stiles, you’re not tortured. You’re still absolutely exploding with privilege from every pore. You’re a young white man with an Ivy League degree, the world is your fucking oyster.” She had softened while he was talking, but now she’s back to looking annoyed.

He holds up his hands in placation. “I know, I know, I got it. I just mean that…I’m stuck. And being here, around people who love me and who actually know me, it’s…comfortable.”

Lydia rests her hand atop his knee. “I know, Stiles,” she says gently. “I get it. But because we love you, we’re not going to let you just spin your wheels anymore. This is a nudge, and a nudge we know you need. I’m not asking you to figure your shit out today, or even this week. But can we agree that you’ll move on, to something that could actually lead to something else, by November? I’m not saying I’ll kick you out then, you know that. I’m just saying, is that a reasonable goal?” Lydia knows Stiles needs deadlines to accomplish anything.

He gives her a long-suffering glare, then eventually nods. She smiles in satisfaction and says, “Good. Now get back to those bottles, we open in 30.”

*****

Stiles tends bar on autopilot that night, running over Lydia’s words in his head. In truth, she didn’t need to confront him at all; he’s been wracking his own brain day and night to figure out what he wants to do. But maybe it’s unrealistic to think that, at 23 and fresh out of college, he’s going to know what his major life’s purpose is. Maybe he just needs to take some sort of step, in any direction that has a future. Pouring drinks at the Roadhouse won’t lead to anything else, he knows that. And he knows how easy it would be to get stuck and just submit to entropy.

It’s been three weeks since Stiles said goodbye to Derek and he can’t shake the guy from his thoughts. It’s silly, he knows – they hung out for one day, and he knows almost nothing about the man. But even beyond his powerful physical attraction to Derek, he feels an even more powerful desire to learn everything about him, to earn his trust, to make him laugh again like he hasn’t a care in the world. Happiness is a very good look on Derek, and he himself admitted it’s not one he wears often.

Stiles sighs as he takes orders, makes change, wipes spills. He knows he should flirt for better tips, but he doesn’t have the energy. A pretty blonde girl keeps giving him these sultry, lingering smiles, and he can barely manage a quick upturn to his lips in reply. It has been a very, very long time since he’s gotten laid, but he knows a quick, empty encounter would be totally unsatisfying. He also knows he needs to stop pining for Derek, who is hundreds of miles away, a decade older, and probably in love with a dead woman.

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t put a Google alert on the guy, creepy as it may make him feel sometimes. He knows that Derek attends public events that the press covers, and he’s just hoping to see his face, okay? It’s not like he’s running a background check on him. (His dad refused.) Not surprisingly, Derek has zero social media presence, so he can’t even get a fix that way.

Stiles has his cell phone in his back pocket and feels it buzz with an incoming call. He’s way too slammed to check it now; it can really only be his dad, since everyone else he talks to is at the Roadhouse right now. He’ll call him after his shift. He’ll tell him he’s going to get serious and look for a more challenging job, and be open to anything that sounds like it could keep him busy in an educational way. He can imagine exactly how their conversation will go, and how thrilled his dad will be, which makes him smile to himself a little. 

Lydia barrels behind the bar looking for something, not even acknowledging Stiles.

“Hey, Lyds!” he says. “I’ve got news.”

As she rummages around under the bar, he hears a growled “What.”

“Tonight is gonna be my last shift. I’m going to take your advice and start job-hunting tomorrow.”

If Stiles expected Lydia to celebrate, he’s clearly delusional. She pops up, long hair flying back, and fixes him with a burning glare.

“I am NOT interested in your little quarter life crisis right now,” she hisses. “Get back to work and throw yourself a parade on your own time.” She ducks back down, still looking for whatever it is she needs.

*****

Stiles can walk to Scott’s place from the bar, which is good since he never picked up his Jeep from his dad’s. Halfway through the walk home that night he remembers his dad’s call and pulls out his phone to call him back.

But he doesn’t have a missed call from his dad. He has a missed call from a number that isn’t in his contacts, with a 530 area code. His own area code is 707, but he knows that 530 is for the eastern half of Northern California. Who does he know who lives there? There’s no voicemail, and maybe it was a wrong number, but Stiles has never been shy about this sort of thing and he’s pretty short on entertainment these days, so he calls the number back.

It rings long enough that he figures it’s a lost cause when a familiar and sexy voice answers, as if very surprised, “Stiles?”

“Derek??” Stiles stops walking, stunned. “You called me?”

“Oh, um, yes, I did.” Derek clears his throat and sounds spectacularly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about how late it was, you didn’t need to call me back-“

“Woah, woah, hold up, man. How do you even know my number?” Stiles doesn’t remember giving it to the man, but there are whole sections of their last evening hanging out that he’s not crystal clear on. Although he feels like he would have remembered that.

Derek laughs nervously. “Well, I hope this is okay, but I got it from the hotel in Palm Springs.”

Stiles frowns. “I’m pretty sure they don’t give that kind of information out. Even though I’m fine with it, honestly.”

“I may have…greased the wheels a bit.” Stiles thinks he can actually hear Derek cringing, and he bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god, dude! No one has ever bribed anyone on my behalf before! This is huge!” There’s a warm, elated feeling spreading through his chest. Derek is _calling_ him, and he went to great lengths to do so. Stiles doesn’t even care why. He wasn’t sure he’d ever hear his voice again.

“Well,” Derek says, clearly at a loss for words. “Yes. So. I guess I did. But. I felt like I had a good reason.”

Stiles is intrigued. “Which is?”

“I feel a little stupid about it now. And it’s probably really presumptuous of me.” Derek seems stuck.

“Jesus, man, spit it out. My life is pretty unexciting, whatever you have to say is guaranteed to be the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

“Are you still in Barstow?”

“Yes, still treading water. Come on – what’s up?” Stiles has started walking toward Scott’s place again, needing to keep moving to burn off the nervousness building up inside him.

“Okay. Well. Please feel free to tell me to go fuck myself, but. We recently lost our legal assistant here at the foundation, and we usually hire a smart college grad who wants some real work experience for a year or two, and I was thinking-“

“Yes! Oh my god, yes!” Was Derek psychic? Stiles had barely decided to start job hunting three hours earlier.

Flatly, Derek says, “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“You’re asking if I want the job, right?”

Derek huffs. “Well, yes, but I haven’t given you any details, you don’t know what it entails or pays or-“

“Don’t care, man. I’m so tired of pouring Goldschlager shots and being forced to partake so they tip me well. I’m tired of cinnamon vomit.” Derek groans, and Stiles half wonders if he’s desperately regretting his offer already.

“I didn’t need that image. But, anyway, here’s the part that might be difficult – the foundation operates from here in Beacon Hills. So you’d have to live here, which I know would be a pretty big thing to ask.”

Live near you? Stiles thinks. Not exactly a hardship. But he says, “Nah, it’s fine. I expected I’d have to relocate in order to find a job. How’s the apartment market up there? Think I can find something decent I can afford? Or do you know anyone who needs a roommate?” Stiles makes a plan to check Craigslist as soon as he’s home.

“Well,” more throat clearing and obvious discomfort, “there isn’t a whole lot in this town, so there isn’t really a rental market to speak of. But Hale House – where the foundation offices are – it has plenty of empty space. There’s an entire wing, with its own kitchen, that hasn’t been used in a decade. Of course I’d have it cleaned and updated, and you could choose whichever suite of rooms you wanted.”

Suite of rooms? Who the fuck is this guy?

“Is that where you live?” The important question.

After a beat, Derek states, “I do. But it’s a really big house, it won’t be like we’re roommates or anything. You’ll have plenty of space,” he adds hastily.

Stiles smiles to himself, enjoying how easily this conversation flusters Derek. That has to mean something, right?

“Honestly, dude, it sounds perfect. I really needed this, so thank you.”

“We need the help,” Derek asserts, back to a business-like tone of voice, “so I should be thanking you.”

“When do you need me to start? I already told Lyds I was done with the bar.”

“Could you be up here by Monday? I can send a car.” It’s Wednesday now – that gives Stiles five days.

“I think that works. But no need for the car – I’m going to go pick mine up from my dad’s and drive there myself. Text me the info? And whatever I need to know for my first day?”

“We’ll start slow,” Derek responds, and Stiles wishes he were talking about something else entirely, “so you won’t start working the day you arrive. Just pack up whatever you need to be comfortable and get here safely and we’ll go from there.” His earlier nerves have clearly vanished and he sounds brisk, efficient. It’s a little disappointing.

“Roger that.” Stiles can work with this, he can.

*****

When Stiles gets back to the apartment, he’s whooping with excitement. Scott and Allison whip around from where they’re cuddling on the sofa watching an old Adam Sandler movie. “What’s up, man?” Scott asks cheerfully.

“I got a j-o-b!” Stiles announces with a grin, dumping the contents of his pockets out onto the kitchen counter.

“Don’t you have one?” Scott asks with a quizzical look. 

“Technically, yes. But tending bar is not a long-term solution. Like, maybe if I was doing it to pay the bills while I write a novel or learn metalsmithing or some shit like that, but I can’t just do it forever in order to avoid actually choosing a career.”

Scotts nods sagely. “I get it. So what’s the job?”

Stiles flops down onto the recliner perpendicular to the sofa and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, ignoring Allison’s scowl. “That’s the best part. It’s working as a legal assistant at an awesome non-profit that helps kids” – both Scott and Allison are looking progressively more pleased as he speaks, “and the best part is that it’s DEREK’s non-profit, and I’ll be living in his house!” Stiles is so excited he can feel the pink flush in his face.

Allison and Scott look at each other soundlessly for a moment, then back at Stiles.

“What?” Scott asks, seeming both confused and concerned.

“Uh, which part was unclear?”

Allison steps in. “I think he means – is that a great idea? You spent like, one day with this guy? Mostly very drunk? And now you’re going to LIVE with him? Didn’t you say he lives in some small town way up north? You’ll be totally on your own. What if this is some kind of trap?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles says, “What, a sexy trap? It’s not like that, Ally. His house is apparently huge enough that I can live there and barely even see him.” It’s not exactly what Derek said, nor what Stiles hopes, but he’s trying to play to his audience to get them on board. “And his foundation is completely legit, remember I showed you the website?”

She nods, unconvinced. “Why can’t you just rent an apartment in town up there? Like, have your own space?”

“I guess there aren’t any?” Stiles knows how strange and implausible that sounds, but he believes Derek. Against all reason, he trusts Derek. Which he knows is dangerous, but he’s not going down that road in his mind right now.

“That doesn’t…sound right,” says Scott. And if Scott is thinking critically about something, it must be pretty serious.

Stiles heaves a deep sigh and throws up his hands in exasperation. “Guys, this was me sharing my good, exciting news. Can you be happy for a minute and then chastise and lecture me later?”

They both look a little shame-faced at that and mumble their agreement.

Stiles smacks his spread thighs and grins. Nothing can bring him down right now. “Awesome. And I love this movie, keep it going.” 

His friends are still acting a little wary and are uncharacteristically quiet, but they’ll come around. He’s sure of it.

*****

Two days later finds Stiles at his dad’s house, where he’ll pick up his car, pack up his stuff, and spend a little quality time with the Sheriff before moving to Beacon Hills.

Like his friends, Stiles’ father is uncertain about his son’s choice to go live in a new place with a guy he barely knows. And he hasn’t even told his dad he’ll be living with Derek; he just told him he’d be living in “foundation housing.” It won’t take his dad long to figure out what that really means, but at least he’s spared the negative reaction for right now.

As they sit on the back porch, grilling chicken and sipping beer, the Sheriff gives his son a long, considering look. “Son,” he starts, “you’re taking this job for the right reason, right?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows over the neck of his beer bottle as he swallows. “Pops?”

“You know what I’m asking you, kid. Is this sudden clarity about your professional future because of a certain Derek Hale?”

Stiles ponders denying it, but opts for the truth. “Honestly, Dad, a little bit? I mean, I needed a shove. And he’s a really cool guy, doing really cool shit for sick kids, and getting to know him better while working for an organization like that is kind of a double win? Even if nothing ever happens with him, the job alone makes it worth it. He’s just…the inspiration, I guess.”

The Sheriff shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I know better than to tell you that I don’t think this is a great idea. Just…be careful.”

“If you mean ‘don’t get murdered,’ I will definitely try. If you mean ‘don’t fall for him and get your heart crushed,’ I would try if I could, but I think it’s out of my hands. Actually, probably getting murdered is, too. So, uh, I promise to wear my seatbelt and not eat undercooked eggs?”

“Shut up and drink your beer, kid.”

“Seriously, though, Dad. I appreciate your concern. And I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t feel right, in some way.”

His dad nods. “I know. And you know that if you need me, I’ll be there as fast as I can, sirens blazing?”

“If I know anything at all, Dad, I know that.” He raises his beer to clink it against his father’s. 

It feels good to be with his dad, to feel his fatherly concern for him. He doesn’t think that will ever not feel awesome, no matter how old he gets. And he’s going to enjoy the hell out of the next couple of days before heading to Beacon Hills.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowed down a bit on posting due to that pesky job of mine...hopefully back to speedy updates now!

The drive to Beacon Hills is long and winding, mostly on two-lane roads through mountains. There’s a long stretch of nothingness between the last town he passes and his final destination, making him realize how remote this place really is.

It’s mostly woods here, with the occasional well-preserved 150-year old house dotted among the trees. Stiles follows the directions Derek texted to him yesterday, keeping his eyes peeled for the copse of apple trees he said would mark the spot to turn for Hale House. The road transitions from paved to gravel as he makes the turn, mouth agape at the beauty of the nature around him.

His phone buzzes from the other side of the bench seat; he’s surprised he can even get reception out here. Although Derek probably has enough money and influence to get his own tower installed, who knows. Stiles grabs out for the phone without taking his eyes off the road, then flicks a glance at the screen. He’s gotten a text from Derek:

_Let me know if you can’t find the turn…see you soon._

Stiles feels a pulse of electricity low in his gut at his proximity to Derek, and this strange new life he’s starting. Some people fear change, but Stiles thrives on it, the way it staves off boredom and makes everything exciting. 

Even though he knows better, he taps out a quick response: _Found turn, be there v soon._

The gravel road just goes on and on and on – how far back is this house? But when it finally does come into view, Stiles realizes he was mistaken – this is no house. This is a frigging palace. He’s pretty sure he’s seen high schools that were smaller than this structure. His first thought, oddly, is how catastrophically expensive it must be to heat and cool.

The architecture is Victorian, with the gingerbread and the turrets and the cupolas and all that jazz. Deep blue-gray paint covers most of the exterior, but the trim is gray, white, and even pure gold. It’s all immaculate, as if the house were built yesterday. It looks like a museum, honestly.

As Stiles pulls up, feeling like his ancient beat-up car looks horribly out of place here, he spies Derek on the front porch, waiting for him. Stiles waves and then steers over to a cordoned-off area that appears to be a small parking lot; makes sense, given that there’s a business being run here that probably has quite a few employees. Hell, maybe they even give tours to the public – and if they don’t, they should.

“Nice digs!” he shouts through his open window as he turns off the engine. Derek gives him an exaggerated smirk and then ambles down the porch steps in Stiles’ direction.

“Do you have a lot of stuff? Should I get someone from inside to help?”

Stiles crumples his brow in confusion. “I thought you lived alone?”

Derek looks embarrassed. “I said I lived without any family. But there is…staff. Most of them have been here since I was a little kid. I definitely couldn’t keep this place running on my own.” He’s looking at Stiles like he’s terrified the younger man will judge him.

“That’s rad, dude,” he says instead. “And no, not a ton of stuff. Just my clothes, some books, Xbox, laptop. The essentials.” He speaks as he’s sliding the spare tire on the rear of the Jeep out of the way so he can pull down the back of the vehicle to get at his stuff. 

“I’m impressed,” Derek says approvingly. “I respect a man who travels light.”

“Oh, I’m just too broke to own much stuff,” Stiles grins cheekily. “If I had money there’d be three moving trucks pulling in here right now.”

Derek rolls his eyes and reaches out to grab the biggest of Stiles’ duffels. “I guess I’m glad you’re broke, then. Follow me.” He hoists the bag over his shoulder with ease, even though it weighs fifty pounds, easy. Stiles whistles and Derek’s cheeks go pink as he quickly turns away and starts heading toward the house. Stiles doesn’t mind; he’s got a great view of the muscles in Derek’s back shifting under the thin cotton of his fitted t-shirt.

Instead of going through the front door, they keep walking around the right side of the house, down to the end of the driveway that leads to an enormous garage. Derek stops in front of a side door in the house, right toward the back of the huge building. It’s built to mimic the grand front door on a smaller scale, and Derek pulls a set of keys out of his pocket to unlock it.

“Are you throwing me in the dungeon?”

Derek gives him a wolfish look. “Not yet.” He pushes the door open and steps back so that Stiles can enter first. “I thought you’d like having a space with its own entrance. More private, and everything.”

Stiles looks around him at what could properly be called an apartment. A big apartment. There’s a living room, which they’re standing in now, already set up with a (suspiciously new-looking) TV and a massive, overstuffed couch. The living room branches off into an open kitchen, full of professional-grade appliances and marble countertops, and at least four other rooms. Everything looks freshly painted and newly furnished at top dollar. Didn’t Derek say no one had lived here in over a decade?

“How did you do this in five days?” He gasps.

Derek shrugs, but looks proud and pleased. “I knew the right people to call. And money talks. Want a tour? Drop your stuff.”

Derek shows him around the remaining rooms: a palatial bathroom with a shower bigger than the kitchen in Stiles’ last college apartment, two bedrooms with king-size beds, one of which has a half-bathroom attached and an amazing view of the gardens behind the house, and an office set up with a new iMac and printer. Although he’s partial to his childhood home for nostalgic reasons, this will definitely be the nicest place he has ever lived.

“Wow, man. Just…wow. This is incredible.”

Derek nods. He’s obviously suppressing a huge grin. He clearly wanted Stiles to like this, which is funny because Stiles would have been thrilled with a windowless garage and a cot. He might have even preferred one small room, if it were down the hall from Derek’s…he ignores that thought. Derek did not bring him here to seduce him. Unfortunately. Right?

“I’m glad it’s okay. I felt bad, constraining you to Hale House. But as you probably noticed on your way in, there’s not much else around here.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of the whole town, aren’t you?” Stiles leaps onto the sofa and lets out a whoosh of contentment. “This baby is niiiiiiiice.”

“Good,” Derek says, still standing a few feet from where Stiles sits. He looks like he doesn’t know what to say next. “I’ll let you get settled in. If you give me a list of groceries you want, Alice will go pick them up tomorrow.”

“Okay, awesome,” Stiles says from his position lying flat on the sofa, eyes closed. 

“There’s some stuff in there, already, just basics, if you want to eat dinner on your own.”

Stiles feels like Derek is trying to say something but doesn’t know how.

“Is there an alternative to eating on my own?”

Derek rubs his stubble and nods. “You could come upstairs, eat with me. But please don’t feel like you have to. You’re completely independent here. You can pretend this isn’t even part of Hale House.”

Stiles groans. “Dude, relax. Everything about this setup is awesome. And I would love to eat with you. What time? I think I’m gonna nap first, shower.”

“I’ll text you,” Derek offers. “Get some rest. And…glad you’re here.” Stiles can’t get too excited by Derek’s last words because of how stiffly he delivers them. But the guy is trying.

“Awesome. Later.” Stiles stays put on the couch, eyes still closed, listening to the snick of the closing door. 

*****

Later, after they’ve dined on homemade pizzas made by Derek’s cook, Leo (“No delivery places around here, obviously,” Derek had told him apologetically), the two men wander around the empty house while Derek gives him a very cursory tour.

“This wing,” he gestures to the halls and rooms branching off on the east side of the estate, “is entirely Foundation. Offices, conference rooms, places for the employees to hang out on break, a kitchen, that kind of stuff.”

“How many employees are there?” Stiles asks, realizing how little he knows about the company he’s about to work for.

Derek scrunches up his face and looks upward, his lips moving minutely as he counts. “I think it’s…35? Maybe 36? Including you, of course,” he says with a smile as he walks them over toward that wing.

Stiles takes in the professional, polished look of the whole area; it does look like a proper office and not at all like somebody’s house. “I hope the part where you live is a bit, er, homier?” He gives Derek a look like he doubts it.

Derek laughs fully, a rare and wonderful sight. “Well, come see for yourself?” Not waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking toward the west wing of the house, which is mostly closed off from the main (and massive) foyer. Stiles hurries to keep up, hardly believing his luck at falling into such an organic reason for spying on Derek’s private quarters. He’d figured he would need to wait weeks for such an opportunity, if it ever arose.

Derek uses a key to open an enormous mahogany door, covered in carved embellishments, which leads into a small hallway. The big door falls shut behind him and they stand for a moment in the total silence.

“This part of the house has been home to upwards of two dozen people at various points in history,” Derek explains as he begins to move down the hallway, past the inevitable oil-painting family portraits adorning the wallpapered walls. He doesn’t add that it’s just him now, but they’re both thinking it.

“You said you had staff – don’t they live over here?”

Derek shakes his head and continues to walk, turning right into an enormous living room that boasts floor to ceiling windows overlooking the rear gardens. It’s filled with antique, but comfortable-looking, furniture, artistic objects on every flat surface, thousands of books on built-in shelves, and a palace-worthy fireplace. 

“Downstairs is all staff quarters.”

“Just like on all those British period shows? Do you ring a bell when you need someone? Do they come scurrying in and curtsy for you?” 

Derek’s obviously embarrassed by his wealth, at least when he’s around Stiles, so he rolls his eyes and pinks up a bit. “Funny. Obviously not. And no, it’s not like some upstairs/downstairs thing, the lower level is all apartments, perfectly nice ones. And plenty of the staff don’t live here. Only Leo, and Alice, the head housekeeper, and Harris.”

“Who’s he?” Stiles asks.

“Adrian Harris, he’s been here since I was in junior high or so. You’ll be seeing a lot of him; he’s involved with the house and with the Foundation. Basically runs the whole estate. Nothing really happens around here without Harris getting his fingerprints on it. He’s pretty essential. Kind of a strange guy, but harmless.”

Stiles frowns quizzically. “Strange? I mean, I’m strange, so…”

Derek laughs and gives Stiles a warm look that he tries very hard not to read into. “Not fun strange. Like you. Kind of…hmmm. He’s very reserved and serious, doesn’t show much emotion. Not very animated. He’s been a lot worse since…” Derek swallows visibly. “Since my wife died.”

“Jennifer,” Stiles whispers.

Derek’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I haven’t mentioned her, have I?”

Stiles coughs and feels himself blushing, but Derek just chuckles.

“Look, I may have Googled you very briefly, you know, all part of my due diligence before moving to a strange town to basically cohabitate with a stranger. I’m sorry-“

“No, no, it’s fine. I would have told you, anyway. I just – I really don’t like talking about it.”

Stiles nods and sits down on the sofa near them. “I get that. And you really don’t need to say anything more. Like, you were married, her name was Jennifer, she passed away-“

Derek’s gazing at the unlit fireplace and the pensive look on his face has taken on a dark cast. His eyes, ever so briefly, look angry. Without looking up he sits down next to Stiles and says, “I hate that expression. ‘Passed away.’ Passed what? By whom? It’s meaningless.”

“Actually, I agree. I never say it about my mom. She didn’t, like, disappear into the vapor. She fucking died. She’s dead. It doesn’t hurt more if I call it what it is. It definitely doesn’t hurt less if I use euphemisms.”

For a moment Derek looks confused, like that’s not what he meant, but his face clears and he nods. “So, yeah. She’s dead.” He turns and looks at Stiles, still something so complicated in his expression.

“Well,” Stiles sighs, “I’m sorry.”

Derek doesn’t respond; his eyes flicker to the wall behind Stiles. He swallows, then sits upright. “Yeah, well, Harris was pretty fond of her. And he took it hard. I guess he’s still dealing with it. So if he seems odd…”

“I’ll cut him some slack,” Stiles finishes.

Derek exhales and then smiles softly at Stiles. “Thanks.”

A sharp rap on the door to the living room, which Stiles hadn’t even realized Derek had pulled shut behind them, startles both men. They whirl around, Derek calling out, “Come in,” and they are joined by a slight man in his late 40s with a furrowed brow, his lips in a tight line.

“Sir,” he nods to Derek, glancing at Stiles like he can smell him from across the room and doesn’t care for the scent one bit.

“Hi there. Stiles, this is Harris. Harris, this, obviously, is Stiles Stilinski.” Apparently Derek had brought Harris up to speed prior to Stiles’ arrival.

Harris looks directly at Stiles but doesn’t say anything. Stiles smiles awkwardly and waves, realizing how idiotic he must look before quickly shoving his waving hand under his leg.

Looking back to Derek, Harris tells him, “Sir, I just wanted to let you know that I am retiring for the evening, unless you needed assistance with anything.”

Derek shakes his hand and makes a waving gesture. “No, go to bed, Harris. See you in the morning.”

Harris bows his head shortly, then ducks back out of the room, closing the door almost silently.

After a moment, Stiles says, “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

Derek rubs his temples and grimaces. “Nope, I wasn’t.”

Feeling the spell between them broken, at least for now, Stiles bids Derek goodbnight and heads off to his own area of the house, citing a need to rest up before his first day of work. Derek tells him where to meet him in the morning, and for one outrageously uncomfortable moment they stand in front of each other, locked in a do-we-don’t-we pre-hug situation. Stiles can’t bear the tension and just goes in for the hug, surprising Derek’s tense frame and somehow knocking over a nearby figurine in the process. They both laugh awkwardly and then Stiles hurries out, leaving Derek in the living room. 

Things will get easier between them eventually, he hopes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, and going forward, I will begin to take a few liberties with California geology. Please bear with me, and also feel free to point out any horrible inaccuracies!

Stiles makes himself a pot of coffee with the French press in his kitchen the next morning, too keyed up about his new job to eat anything. (He also didn’t see any Lucky Charms in the pantry, which needs to be rectified ASAP.) He’s not sure whether Derek’s expecting them to have breakfast upstairs together; Derek just told him to meet him in the foyer at 8:30.

Once he’s sufficiently caffeinated, Stiles showers quickly in his heavenly new shower, then puts on his most respectable outfit: khaki trousers and a white button-down shirt. He rolls the sleeves up to his elbows so that he doesn’t look too stuffy, but dons his dress shoes instead of sneakers, just in case. He doesn’t know how his coworkers dress, or what the tone is like among the Foundation crew. That’s the worst part of any first day: not knowing what to expect. But Stiles always adapts lightning fast, even if takes the people around him a little longer to acclimate to the maelstrom of energy that follows him everywhere. If they ever do, but he can’t let himself worry about that right now. At least he knows Derek likes him, right? Or tolerates him, at the very least? He did call him “fun weird,” last night, so that’s something. Even if Derek still hasn’t quite relaxed into the guy he hung out in Barstow with. It’s almost like his own house makes him tense.

“Stop obsessing over Derek,” he mutters to his reflection as he tries to coax his hair into something socially acceptable. He brushes his teeth for the second time that morning, just to chase away his coffee breath, then slips his phone into his back pocket and heads out the door that opens onto the driveway, yelping like an injured cat when Derek’s standing right there.

“What the hell, dude?! Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack.” Stiles actually pants, running his fingers through his hair, then cursing himself for messing it up so quickly.

“Sorry,” Derek winces, actually looking contrite. “I just couldn’t remember if I said where exactly to meet, and I know it’s your first day, so…”

“So you came to be my personal escort to make sure I don’t get lost or feel too shy? Awww, thanks, buddy!” Stiles grins and claps Derek on the shoulder, unable to resist giving it a little squeeze. Damn, that’s a firm, solid shoulder, he thinks dreamily.

Derek attempts to scoff at Stiles and makes a show of throwing his hand off, but he’s smiling and looks pleased.

Stiles turns to lock his door, then turns back around. “Lead the way, then, buddy!”

*****

Stiles likes his new boss immediately, even though there’s something definitely weird about the guy. Alan Deaton is a pensive, soft-spoken man with a penetrating gaze, and he’s very welcoming to Stiles, albeit in a very formal way. 

“Mr. Stilinksi,” he nods when Derek ushers him into Deaton’s office before backing right out again when his cell phone buzzes. Stiles turns and watches Derek go, wondering when, or if, he’ll see him again during the workday, then turns back to Deaton with a ready smile.

“Yes, sir, that’s me.”

Deaton extends a hand. “I’m Alan Deaton, most folks around here just call me Deaton. I’m the Foundation’s General Counsel. I oversee all things legal. I understand you’re interested in law school?”

“Ummmmmmm…” Stiles wonders just what Derek had to say to get him this job. “I mean, I haven’t ruled it out?” 

Deaton shakes his head slightly and chuckles knowingly. “I see. You must have impressed Mr. Hale very much. Well, this job will either make you begin to consider the law or cross it off the list forever. Either outcome will be useful information for you to have. In the meantime, I reviewed your credentials, so I have no doubt you’ll be an asset to me.”

Stiles has no idea what sort of credentials Derek showed Deaton, though he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek somehow got his hands on Stiles’ transcripts (and birth certificate, and credit check, and genome report), and he knows that he was a kickass student, so he just says, “Yes, sir, I plan to be.”

“Good.” This man never really smiles, but still radiates a kind of contented calm. Stiles can’t decide if it’s soothing or unnerving. 

The two men sit on opposite sides of Deaton’s desk for several hours while Deaton explains the Foundation to him as it begins to rain outside, progressively harder. Stiles keeps flicking nervous glances at the window, and when Deaton finally notices he assures him that it’s typical Beacon Hills weather and nothing to worry about. “We’re barely 75 miles from the Oregon state line, remember.”

“Have you lived in Beacon Hills your whole life?” he asks Deaton.

“No,” is all Deaton says. “As I said, Mr. Hale’s mother, the late Talia Hale, is really the one to thank for the Foundation getting started. Many mothers would, after losing a young child, be too grief-stricken to do much of anything, but she channeled her pain into helping others. Since she started the foundation 25 years ago, more than 5,000 children have been assisted in one way or another.”

Remembering the Palm Springs hospital adventure, Stiles asks, “What does assistance usually look like?”

“It varies. It depends on what is most needed, and most lacking. It might be the payment of bills, it might be fulfilling last wishes, maybe connecting families with the right counselors. And there’s not an insignificant amount of legal support we can provide.”

“Which is where we come in,” Stiles grins.

Deaton returns a tiny half-smile. “Indeed. Mostly we file claims against insurance companies wrongly refusing to pay hospital or treatment bills. We’ve also filed negligence claims against corporations who are in some way to blame for a child getting cancer in the first place.”

“Like…polluters?”

“Polluters, tobacco companies, pharmaceutical manufacturers. Also, negligence by doctors who fail to diagnose early enough or prescribe the right treatment, that sort of thing.”

“Damn,” Stiles says. “I never really thought about all of that.”

“There’s much more, I’m afraid. When a child is going through treatment for an incurable disease, which is usually the case by the time they get to us, there are a myriad of ways that the law gets involved. You’ll see.” Deaton wheels over to a filing cabinet in the corner behind his desk as Stiles’ eye flicker up to the portrait on the wall above.

“Who are they?”

Deaton doesn’t even need to look up from where he’s rifling through file folders to know what Stiles is asking. His eyes still firmly on the papers, he says, “That’s the whole Hale family. Before the accident.”

Right. Because Derek hasn’t just gone through one tragedy in his life – he’s been lucky enough to have _two_. At some point, Stiles wants to know more about that, but he figures his first day on the job with a stranger probably isn’t the time. 

Deaton returns to the desk swiftly, a stack of folders in hand. “I think the best way to start is to just dive in. I’m going to assume your competence until I’m proven wrong and not waste time on a lot of explanation. Does that work?”

Yes, Stiles definitely likes this guy. “Totally works. What do you need?”

*****

Shortly after Stiles gets started on working through some insurance denials that he needs to determine the legitimacy of, Deaton suggests a break for lunch, although he himself is going to work through and eat at his desk. He encourages Stiles to take some time to get more acquainted with the house, since it’s both his new workplace and home. Stiles has to admit he is pretty curious, so he takes the opening and does a sweep of the Foundation offices, this time in the daylight, introducing himself to the other Foundation employees.

Everyone seems perfectly nice, which he supposes is to be expected when you work for a charity, but he hits it off with one person in particular: Erica Reyes. She’s a very glamorous blonde with neon red lipstick and an outfit more suited to a nightclub in San Francisco than an old mansion in Beacon Hills, but she owns it and it works. She’s all crafty smiles and innuendo-laced humor and Stiles likes her immediately. She works in fundraising, and he doesn’t doubt she can get old rich guys to open their wallets.

Jackson Whittemore, however, is another story. He’s male-model handsome, in that overly polished and starved-looking way, and pretty much all of his facial expressions are variations on Blue Steel. He handles some aspects of wish fulfillment and a good portion of the company’s PR – probably the best use for his pretty face, Stiles figures. He’s not sure what other value the guy has, since he’s cold, snarky, and looks Stiles up and down like he’s tracked in dog shit for fun.

It’s nice, though, having other people his age working here. Stiles wasn’t sure how socially isolated he would be in Beacon Hills, and now it seems like he’ll have a few people to hang out with, at least during the workday. He wonders if he and Derek will hang out in the evenings, or if Derek goes out, or if Derek will just stay in his part of the house and read quietly? Maybe last night was just an anomaly, a warm welcome for his arrival. He hopes not.

Their brief interlude in Derek’s living room on his mind, Stiles wanders out of the Foundation wing and across the foyer, heading for the broad, winding staircase that leads up to what he presumes is another purely-Hale section of the house. It’s the kind of staircase you see in old Gothic horror movies: deep, rich hardwood carved ornately, a red carpet covering the middle of the stairs, thick banisters that beg to be ridden. Maybe after everyone’s gone to bed…

Once upstairs, he’s surprised to see that there’s no locked door to pass through to get to the rooms, like there is downstairs. Instead, the top of the stairs just leads to a normal (albeit very long) hallway, off of which sprout many doorways, mostly open. Given that nothing is closed off, Stiles figures there’s no harm in wandering about a bit.

Ignoring the closed doors, for now, Stiles pokes his head into the first open doorway to find yet another plus-size living room resplendent with antiques and art. He wonders who uses it, given that Derek lives downstairs and the staff live on the floor below. Maybe it’s for entertaining the public?

But as he wanders, Stiles finds a suite of bedrooms, a kitchen not unlike his own, an office overlooking the gardens. This is clearly another apartment-style wing, intended to be a residence. For a fleeting moment, Stiles wonders why Derek didn’t put him up here; it was all ready to go, unlike his new place, and closer to Derek. He can’t help wondering if that’s why Derek didn’t do it. 

He’s thinking about all of this and growing progressively more mopey when a throat clears behind him. He’s been standing in the living room, gazing out over the gardens to where you can almost see a sliver of Shasta Lake (which must be _the_ lake in which Jennifer Blake died), and nearly jumps a foot in the air at the unexpected sound.

“Jesus,” he shouts as he whirls around to come face to face with Harris. “Man, you scared me.” Stiles offers a weak smile; he’d like to get on this guy’s good side.

Harris’s face is impassive, and if he registered Stiles’ smile he’s got no interest in producing one of his own.

“Mr. Stilinski – are you lost? Given that it’s lunchtime, I thought perhaps you were looking for the kitchen.” There’s an odd tightness to his voice, like he doesn’t think that at all, but wants to catch Stiles doing something bad.

“I’m sorry, should I not be here? Deaton, uh, told me to explore and I just kind of found my way up here.”

“Alan Deaton does not manage this estate. But there is no rule prohibiting you from being here. Lovely wing, isn’t it?” Now there’s a glint in his eye and his expression has softened.

“Beautiful,” Stiles sighs. He sweeps his arm in the direction of the landscape outside. “The view alone makes it incredible, but all this art and stuff is amazing.”

Harris nods eagerly. “Yes, this is the nicest wing in the house, in my opinion. It’s a genuine pity that it isn’t being used.”

Stiles is confused; everything is so clean and open, fresh flowers on half the tabletops. “It…isn’t used? Huh.”

Harris’s eyes follow Stiles’ to an orchid on a side table and he smiles in an almost triumphant way. “Ah yes, well, I do feel it is important to maintain such a lovely living space, even if Mr. Hale has not found a good enough reason to make use of it.” Hardly missing a beat, he adds, “How are you liking your quarters, Mr. Stilinski?”

The transition feels deliberate, and not a little bit hostile. It throws Stiles off temporarily. “Uh, it’s great actually. Derek went to a lot of trouble. Probably the nicest place I’ve ever lived, in fact.”

Harris gives him a pitying expression. “Well, I am certainly glad to hear that the least-favored part of Hale House is receiving some appreciation. I don’t think anyone has lived there as long as I’ve been here. Do let me know if there is a recurrence of the rats?”

Okay, this guy has got to be fucking with him, but why? He remembers Derek’s words from last night, about Harris still being messed up from Jennifer’s death. Stiles did promise to be nice, unfortunately.

“Will do, Mr. Harris. Thanks for letting me poke around – gonna go get some grub before it’s back to work.”

Stiles hurries out and catches a parting glimpse of Harris preparing to dust the piano keys with a tiny brush made specifically for that purpose.

*****

Stiles ends up running back to his apartment and eating a slapdash sandwich before returning to work. It’s still pouring outside, so he has to get soaked in order to go to and from his quarters, which makes him feel a little resentful again about Derek not putting him in the space upstairs from his own wing. He hates to admit that Harris’s obvious efforts to rattle him succeeded, at least a little bit.

He finishes out the workday, Deaton pleased with his quick understanding of his tasks, he himself very interested in what he’s doing. Deaton gave him a little work station in an open room of desks, where Erica and Jackson both work, so he also gets to do a little snarky back and forth with them.

Just before he leaves, he says, “Oh yeah – I meant to ask you guys. What’s the deal with Harris? Is he always…like that?” He hopes they understand his meaning without him having to go into detail.

Erica does a sassy hair toss and smirks. “Definitely. That dude is fucking creepy. And he has never once even glanced at my breasts, which is very strange.”

“Hey!” Stiles blurts. “I haven’t done that, either!”

“Yet,” she says sagely. “You will eventually.”

As Stiles splutters through some kind of defensive response, forcing himself not to blurt out that he’s only interested in Derek Hale’s body parts, Jackson pipes up.

“Harris is just messed up over Jennifer. He was obsessed with her.”

That’s an interesting perspective – and a little different from what Derek had offered.

“Obsessed?”

“Yeah, like always staring at her and always within ten feet of her. That’s way more creepy than failing to check out Erica’s tits, if you ask me.”

Erica hits Jackson soundly across the chest with the thick folder she’s holding.

“Whatever,” she says. “It’s not like he was the only one. Hale was obsessed with her, too. She was that kind of woman, I guess – inspired obsession. Not sure I really get it, though. She was kind of a bitch to me.”

Jackson rolls his eyes as he leans back against his desk, arms crossed. “Men like bitches, Erica. I’m surprised you don’t know that firsthand. And anyway, I liked her. She was sweet.”

Erica heaves a beleaguered sigh as Stiles waves at them both and leaves. He’s unsettled to hear talk of Jennifer, but also hungry for more. He wants to know everything about the woman his crush was apparently “obsessed” with, but also doesn’t want to feel any more threatened by a ghost than he already does. It’s a delicate balance.

As he’s mulling over the very different descriptions of the woman offered by his two coworkers, lost in thought, he nearly runs into Derek, who is walking into the Foundation offices.

“Hey, boss man!”

Derek’s lips twitch into a tolerant little smile. “Hello, Stiles. How was the first day?” He seems distracted, a little tense.

“Good, actually,” Stiles responds. “Thanks again for giving me the opportunity.” 

Derek’s smile widens into something more natural and his shoulders soften. “I had a feeling you’d fit right in.”

“You going in? Don’t wanna hold you up.”

Derek looks past him, down the Foundation hallway, then settles his eyes back on Stiles’ face. He looks torn. “I’d like to ask you to have dinner with me again, but something urgent just came up and I need to get right on it and I don’t know how long it will take-“

“Woah, woah, it’s cool, man,” Stiles assures him. “I’m actually totally beat, and this weather makes me want to go straight to bed, so I think I’m gonna scrounge in my fridge and then pass out. Major life changes make me sleepy.”

Derek looks unconvinced, but nods tightly. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Sick little kids definitely outrank me. Go make the magic.” Stiles does a little mini salute, immediately hates himself for it, and turns to go. Truthfully, he would have loved to spend more time with Derek, but he won’t hold the guy’s big heart against him. “Later!” he shouts over his shoulder, before slipping back out into the rain.

*****

Three hours later, Stiles is still awake, but just barely. He’s cocooned on the couch in a nest of fuzzy blankets, a huge stack of which he found in his linen closet (he has a linen closet!), watching old episodes of SNL on the Apple TV set up for him. He’s got Youtube, Hulu, Netflix, HBO – he really never needs to leave this apartment. 

It’s not even ten, but his eyelids are starting to flutter; he didn’t sleep amazingly well last night – new bed and all. But they spring open at a sharp rap at his front door. It’s either Derek, one of the few live-in staff members (who should be off for the night), or a deranged killer on the loose. Not too worried, he hobbles over to the door, not shrugging off his elaborate blanket wrapping.

Derek starts to greet him when the door opens, but his eyebrows crouch down his forehead as his gaze is drawn to the blanket situation. “Are you…cold?” he asks in puzzlement.

“Nah, just cozy,” says Stiles, “wanna come in?”

“Oh, um, yeah, I – I felt bad about dinner, only your second night here and I abandoned you, so I brought dessert?”

“Is that a question?”

Derek looks flustered and shakes his head. “Sorry, no, here,” and he pulls up a tote bag from behind his back and thrusts it at Stiles. Whose hands are buried in the blankets, so he just looks at the bag, then up at Derek, then at the bag again, waiting for Derek to catch on.

Derek sighs good-naturedly and pushes past Stiles into the apartment. “I didn’t know what flavor you liked, so I brought a variety.”

“Of?” 

“Ice cream, of course.” Derek looks at him like he might be simple. He carefully pulls half a dozen pints of ice cream out of the bag and lines them up neatly on the counter, their labels facing Stiles.

“You’re seriously OCD, man,” Stiles observes before throwing the blankets off and joining Derek in the kitchen.

“That’s what you’re taking from me bringing you 12,000 calories of ice cream in a downpour, when the nearest grocery store is over an hour away? Maybe I should take it back upstairs…” Derek looks relaxed and content for the first time all day, and Stiles is determined to keep him that way.

“Just calling it like I see it. I’m happy to regale you with all of my own neurological diagnoses, if that feels more fair?”

“I’ll pass. Pick your flavors.” Derek knows exactly where to find the ice cream scoop and bowls in the kitchen, meaning he must have been at least a little involved in the remodel down here for Stiles’ benefit. That gives him a warm and fuzzy feeling, until he remembers the much nicer quarters Derek elected to not give him. But he’s not going to spoil the mood and bring that up, especially since he knows he’s being a totally spoiled brat by even feeling slightly put out by the whole thing.

“Hmmm…I’ll take…cookie dough and mint chip and banana fudge walnut.”

“In the same bowl?” Derek looks properly horrified. “Banana and mint together?”

Stiles shrugs. “I like what I like.”

Oddly enough, Derek warms at that comment and his smile returns. “I guess you do, huh?” It’s probably the first time, Stiles thinks, that his revolting tastes have ever charmed anyone. 

“Well, then,” Stiles returns, “what’s your poison?”

Derek sniffs. “I like vanilla, but,” he continues as he sees Stiles’ exasperated reaction, “I have been known to dabble in strawberry from time to time. I went through a rocky road phase,” he adds proudly.

“Life in Beacon Hills really is wild, isn’t it?” Stiles jokes. Then he remembers he meant to ask Derek about something.

“So Erica and Jackson – you didn’t tell me there’d be other young people here, and you know what I mean by young,” he tacks on in response to Derek’s raised eyebrow.

“I hope you were pleasantly surprised?”

“Well, yeah, totally. Erica’s awesome. Jackson is…” Stiles shovels a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth while waiting for Derek’s response.

“Yeah,” is all Derek says. “You’ll get used to him. He likes to do a lot of posturing, especially when he first meets people.” He takes a delicate nibble of ice cream.

“Have you known him long?” 

Derek nods, finishing his mouthful of dessert and licking his lips. Stiles can’t help but watch his tongue trace around the edges of his lovely mouth. It’s a kind of sweet torture.

“Yeah, they all grew up here, were in Cora’s class. Erica and Cora have known each other for a long time. Jackson was just kind of around. I mean, you grow up in this town, you know everyone else who does. Of course, I was a fair bit older, so they’ll always kind of be first-graders to me.” Derek grabs their empty bowls and rinses them in the sink before placing them carefully in the dishwasher. 

Watching him, Stiles says, “You’re pretty thoughtful for someone who grew up rich enough to have everybody do everything for him.” He immediately regrets his bluntness, but Derek seems unperturbed.

“It was important to my parents that we not be spoiled, that we could take care of ourselves. Money can disappear overnight. So can family,” he adds darkly, his eyes fixed on the counter.

Not wanting to take them down such a heavy path tonight, Stiles tells Derek about the TV he was watching and asks him if he’d like to join.

Derek looks tempted, glance flicking between the paused TV and Stiles, but he hesitates. “I should really get to bed – I have to be up at 4:00 a.m to drive to a children’s hospital in Portland.”

Stiles looks at the window, where the rain is still falling down in sheets. “In this weather? Yikes.”

Derek sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Unfortunately.”

They just stand there for a few beats, unsure what to say, when Derek says, “Maybe I’ll stay for ten minutes or so? Wind down before going to sleep…”

Stiles hopes desperately that this is just a flimsy excuse to keep spending time with him and gives him an eager thumbs-up. “Right this way, sir,” he says as he points to the sofa and its pile of soft blankets.

No sooner have the two men settled onto the couch, just far enough away from each other to make Stiles wonder if Derek is trying to put distance between them because he doesn’t want to give Stiles any ideas or because he doesn’t want to be too forward, when there’s a brief electrical whining sound, the TV goes black, and all the lights disappear. It’s dark as pitch in the apartment; Stiles can’t even see his hand in front of his face.

“Holy shit!” he yelps.

Even though he can’t see Derek’s face, he hears his soft snicker. “Afraid of the dark?”

“Yes,” Stiles states, “yes, in fact I am, especially when it’s storming outside and I literally cannot see a single thing.”

“Give it a minute. Your eyes will adjust.”

“You sound a little too familiar with this situation. Does this happen a lot here?”

Derek’s silence is telling. But he speaks up after a minute. “I put some candles in the cupboard above the stove. I’ll go get them, hold tight.”

“Where would I go?” Stiles demands indignantly.

He expects to hear the fumbling sounds of someone trying to find his way in the dark, but of course Derek, that bastard, moves seamlessly across the apartment in the dark. He collects the supplies, muttering to himself quietly until he finds the matches, then makes his way back to the couch. He’s a little less graceful than he was on the first trip, and must still be unable to see anything, because he ends up sitting down half on top of Stiles. Who lets out a strangled cry that’s half surprise and half delight.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Derek practically flings himself off of Stiles, horror evident in his voice. But their feet had gotten intertwined in the shuffle, so he ends up pulling Stiles down on top of him while Derek himself is flat on his back on the sofa.

Stiles’ brain is going a million miles per second and he’s trying to even figure out what’s happening when he feels a rush of adrenaline. Emboldened by the total darkness, and Derek’s warm, solid proximity, he straightens out his upper body and places his hands on either side of Derek’s head. Or attempts to, because he ends up gripping Derek’s shoulders instead, which pulls a surprised, soft sound from Derek. But he doesn’t pull away.

Knowing this could be his stupidest idea to date, but unable to stop himself, Stiles lowers himself toward Derek’s face, pausing for a moment when their noses brush together. He gives Derek a second to push him off, which he doesn’t do, before slowly, slowly, bringing their lips together.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles’ mind goes clear at the feeling of Derek’s full, warm lips under his. It’s silent and he can’t see a thing, all he can do is feel that living softness and the thrill running through his blood. There’s nothing more exciting than a first kiss, he’s convinced.

Derek doesn’t hesitate to kiss him back, his mouth moving expertly in time with Stiles’. It’s like a well-coordinated dance, especially as they gently angle their faces to meet up perfectly, as the rhythm of their kiss is unbroken by their now-wandering hands on each other’s bodies; Derek runs his hands down Stiles’ back while Stiles slides his up to grip the sides of Derek’s face. Derek’s hair feels even silkier than he’d expected, and he tastes like vanilla.

Derek uses his enviable core strength to sit them up without breaking the kiss, so now the two men are facing each other. Derek’s hands run down Stiles’ back and then on the way back up they slide under his tee shirt, and Stiles shivers. The sensation of Derek’s warm fingers on his skin and his tongue in Stiles’ mouth is a heady combination. Stiles gently bites Derek’s lower lip and the man hums contentedly before deepening the kiss.

Now Derek pulls his hands out from under Stiles’ shirt and slides them up his arms, squeezing gently before sliding them back down again and taking Stiles’ hands into his own. He laces their fingers together, then brings Stiles’ arms up over his head as he leans into Stiles and lowers them back down onto the couch, Derek kneeling slightly over him. Derek pulls off for just a moment, their lips still touching. Stiles, who’s lying pinned, can feel Derek’s grin on his lips. He loves it. 

Derek goes back to kissing Stiles, still occasionally making these little humming sounds that rumble through Stiles’ body. Eventually he seems unable to bear not being able to touch Stiles’ body and brings one arm back down, settling his hand on Stiles’ hip with a squeeze. Stiles can’t help but groan into their kiss himself. He uses his now free hand to explore Derek’s stomach, under his shirt, and is rewarded with Derek’s sharp, aroused intake of breath at the contact. Stiles commits the feeling of silky skin over hard muscle to memory, his fingertips petting the trail of hair leading into Derek’s jeans.

Stiles can’t believe how in tune their bodies are, how their tongues never clash, their lips never fail to match up perfectly, their limbs don’t get tangled or awkward. Everything just flows, and the butterflies in his gut that always appear when he’s around Derek are now fluttering so madly it’s enough to make him feel dizzy and high. 

The kiss intensifies in its urgency; Derek grinds down into Stiles’ pelvis and they’re both hard as hell. The sensation makes Stiles gasp, breaking the kiss, and Derek growls hungrily before reclaiming his mouth and grinding down even harder. Stiles flat-out moans and moves his hands from where they’ve come to rest on Derek’s biceps back up to Derek’s hair. He slides his long fingers through Derek’s hair and tugs on it while arching his body up into Derek’s.

Just as Stiles is pondering yanking off Derek’s shirt, the power springs back on. After the period of total darkness, the lights feel harsh and blinding, and the strident drone of the television is jarring. The two men jerk apart in surprise, Stiles’ hands falling off Derek’s head and back down to his sides. He feels exposed and awkward, but possibly that’s due to the shocked expression on Derek, who has pulled off of Stiles and sat back up, his hair a jumbled mess and a flush on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispers, leaning over and resting his face in his hands. Stiles can’t see his face and he hates it.

“Hey, hey, what do you mean? Could you not tell I was, like, extremely into that?” He tries to laugh, but his stomach is twisted with anxiety at Derek’s reaction and it comes out sounding weak.

Derek looks up, worry evident in the set of his thick eyebrows. “That was totally inappropriate of me. I didn’t bring you here for this, I swear.”

Stiles knows he doesn’t mean that to be insulting, but it stings just a little; he’d like to believe Derek brought him here for this at least _partially_, that Stiles hadn’t been the only one nursing a crush.

“I know,” he tells Derek softly. “And I didn’t _come here_ for this,” he lies. “But it happened, and it seemed like we both wanted it to. And it was, um, kind of great.” He smirks at Derek, desperate to lighten the mood.

To his great relief, Derek’s face and shoulders relax and he smiles genuinely. “Yes, it was.” They hold eye contact for a long moment and Stiles musters up the courage to take one of Derek’s hands in his.

“So can we not act like this was a mistake?”

Derek doesn’t respond. He inhales, like he’s about to speak, then stops. He stares at a spot on the carpet for a few beats before looking back up at Stiles.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says seriously. “It’s just…complicated.”

“I know,” Stiles says, although he really doesn’t. Maybe Derek is referring to their employer-employee status, maybe to their housemate status, maybe to their age difference, maybe to the dead wife situation. It could be any one or all of those things, but Stiles doesn’t want to think about any of that. He’s still stuck in that moment of their bodies intertwined and in perfect harmony. It felt right.

“Let’s talk when I get back from Portland. Okay?”

Ugh, Stiles had forgotten that Derek was leaving before dawn. Awesome timing. He puts on a smile that he doesn’t really feel and says, “Absolutely.”

Derek nods gratefully. “I guess I really do need to go get some sleep.”

Stiles wants to ask him to stay, just a little bit longer, but he doesn’t want to spook the guy. So he says, “Of course,” releases Derek’s hand, and gets up to walk him to the door.

Before he leaves, Derek turns back and kisses Stiles gently on the forehead. “I’ll see you soon, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t sleep much that night.

******

Stiles’ second day of work goes much like his first; he works on some insurance documents, gets guidance from Deaton on a few new tasks, and spends more time with his officemates. It’s a busy day, and a welcome distraction from the uneasiness in his own mind over last night.

“So then,” Erica is saying with a wicked gleam in her eyes, “he actually pulls out the-“

“Jesus Christ, Erica!” shouts Jackson, who thumps a stack of files down on his desk in exasperation. “Can you please keep your pornographic anecdotes to yourself?”

Erica sniffs and then looks at Stiles. “He’s just uninterested in any stories that don’t feature him. He’s been that way since kindergarten.”

Jackson sneers at Erica, gives Stiles a contemptuous look, and storms out.

“So he’s always like this?” Stiles asks, watching the door Jackson just flew through.

“Mmmm, yeah, basically. I just like getting him riled up. Amuses me.” Erica sighs and starts digging in her giant purse for something. “Where the fuck is my gum? I know I had gum.”

“So,” Stiles starts, unsure how to proceed. “I’m kind of at a loss here in Beacon Hills – seems like everybody knows the local history but me.”

Although she totally knows what he’s getting at, Erica clearly wants him to work for it. “But what do you mean? Local history?” she asks innocently.

Stiles cracks his knuckles and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look Erica in the eye while he asks his nosy questions.

“Like, about the Hales, for instance? I know very little. Derek isn’t exactly chatty about personal stuff.”

“Ha!” Erica barks out a laugh. “That’s for sure. Dude’s had a real stick up his ass since end of high school.”

“Did something happen then? Was he not like that before?”

Erica’s curious gaze inspects Stiles thoroughly for a moment before she responds. “Well, that’s when the accident happened, I’ve always assumed that took a pretty big toll on him.”

“What happened?”

Briefly, Erica looks uncomfortable, and she actually gets up and closes the door to their office space before answering. Sitting back down, she says, “Whole family died in a car crash. Well, except for Derek and his sister, Cora. But his parents, his older sister, his younger brother – and this was the younger brother born after the other younger brother died of cancer-“

“Jesus,” Stiles grits out, shaking his head, feeling like shit both for Derek and for digging into his privacy like this.

“Pretty much,” Erica says. “He was like 17, I think. He and Cora went and lived with their grandmother until he left for college, and then after college he moved in here and Cora joined him. Grandma’s still around but I hear she’s completely senile. She’s local, but I’ve never seen her.”

“What’s Cora like?” Stiles remembers Derek saying she went to school with Erica.

“Hmmmmmm…” Erica spins in her chair while inspecting her nails. “She’s okay, I guess. We don’t really mesh, but I have nothing against her. But you’ll probably meet her soon enough, she’s around a lot.”

“Does she work with the Foundation, too?”

Erica shakes her head. “Not officially. But if there’s, like, an event, she’ll always attend. And I guess she has dinner with Derek a lot.” 

Stiles remembers Derek telling him how he didn’t get along that well with his sister because she thought he was too stiff, and wonders what those dinners are like.

“Did you know Jennifer?”

Erica narrows her eyes and steeples her fingers beneath her chin. “So many questions, young man. I thought you and Derek were friends? But, I guess…I mean, he doesn’t talk about her, as far as I know, not to anyone.”

She looks at Stiles, who’s patiently waiting for an answer to his question. “I interacted with her when I had to. I didn’t like her, but I don’t like most women.” She shrugs.

“But you guys said he was obsessed with her. Guess she was, like, really beautiful? Crazy smart, cool job or something?”

Erica frowns and goes back to digging in her purse for her missing gum. “Yeah, she was hot. But look at Derek, come on! Like he’d get with anybody who wasn’t a total smokeshow. Too bad there’s no photos up anymore – people say he’s too broken up to be reminded of her. Aha, I found it!!” She cackles with glee and quickly unwraps two sticks of gum at once, shoving both into her mouth.

Stiles would not describe himself as a total smokeshow. So that takes his insecurity about Derek up a notch or two.

“Anyway,” Erica goes on once she’s adjusted to the gum, “I have no idea if she was smart or whatever. She didn’t have a job, I don’t think. She was always out visiting her friends in San Francisco, or out on her boat, or closed off in her rooms upstairs. I barely saw her.”

“Her rooms upstairs?” Stiles has a bad feeling about where this is headed.

“Yeah, there’s, like, a residential wing up there? She used to spend most of her time there. I mean, she lived with Derek downstairs, of course, but she really liked the view of the lake up there or something, spent a lot of time there. Hey, listen – this has been fun, but I gotta head out. Hot date tonight.” She stands up, shoves what she needs into her bag, and flounces out, giving Stiles a wink on her way out. He waves back at her and remains slumped in his chair.

No wonder Derek didn’t want Stiles in those upstairs rooms. Those were _her_ rooms. They’re probably sacred to him. And that must be why they’re kept up so nicely; Derek wants to preserve them exactly as they were when she was alive. That explains Harris’s little piano brush and the fresh flowers.

Stiles decides to head out, too. He feels a little sick and hopes a good’s night sleep will settle him.

*****

Derek left Wednesday morning, but Stiles doesn’t hear from him until Thursday. It hadn’t been easy falling asleep Wednesday night, with memories of their searing hot makeout, and Erica’s depressing words, rambling through his mind.

But the next morning he wakes up to a text from Derek. Trying not to wonder why it took him so long, Stiles reads: _Portland is cold. Hope you’re settling in. Don’t eat all the ice cream!_

It’s a fairly friendly message, and definitely an effort on Derek’s part. He’s not just flat-out pretending their evening together didn’t happen, nor is he blatantly rejecting Stiles. But it’s obvious, even without him being in the same state as Stiles, that he’s distant. That doesn’t surprise Stiles, but it’s still a bummer.

_Oh that ice cream is already gone, dude. When you back in B Hills?_

It’s pretty forward, and maybe desperate-sounding, but he doesn’t even care at this point. He’s always believed in just putting his feelings out there. He’s no good at faking indifference, which so many potential suitors seem to crave; probably explains his meager dating history. But eventually the right person will appreciate it? He just fears Derek is not that person. Unfortunately.

An hour later, infuriatingly, Stiles gets: _Tomorrow._

It takes one hour to write one word? he thinks with rage. Then he does the only thing that makes sense to him at this very conflicted moment.

“Hello Stiles,” Lydia answers, sounding beleaguered. “I’d hoped you would give it at least a week before calling me to moan and complain.”

“Hey!” he yelps, feeling wounded. “We’re friends, I’m not allowed to call my friend, one I haven’t seen in over a week? Maybe I just want to tell you everything about my life up here?”

“Mmm hmmm,” she says patiently. “So what’s up.”

Stiles sighs and roughly runs his fingers through his hair as he drops down onto his bed. “I’m all fucked up, Lyds.”

He hears the sounds of her settling in on her end, including her whispering to April that she should go ahead and get started on breakfast and Lydia will join her soon.

“Okay,” she exhales. “Lay it on me.”

So Stiles tells her everything; he tells her about the kiss, about Derek’s response, about how uncomfortable Derek seems in his own space, about what Erica told him. About creepy Harris and the creepy empty house wing.

She listens throughout, never interrupting, only occasionally asking insightful questions. This is why she’s his go-to for life advice.

When he’s done barfing out his feelings, she’s quiet for a minute. He knows she’s thinking, so he just waits.

Finally, she asks him, “What is it that you want from Derek?”

“I don’t even know yet! I mean, I’m ridiculously attracted to him. You’ve seen him, you feel me.”

Lydia hums in assent.

“But it’s not just how hot he is. He’s this incredibly thoughtful, kind person, but in the most unassuming way. Like it’s easy to think he’s this buttoned-up aloof rich guy, but he’s actually just shy and quiet and wants to do good without anyone noticing. And I know that he’s lonely. Like really lonely.”

“So you’re the cure? You want to fix him?”

Stiles huffs in frustration. “No, no. Not any more than you want to fix anyone you care about. I just know that when we’re together, he doesn’t seem so morose and standoffish. He’s happy. And he’s fun. There’s just an…energy between us that I don’t even know how to explain. And I don’t know where that will lead or anything, but I want to just follow it and find out.”

“And you don’t know if he does.”

“Exactly,” he sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, he was very into it when we were making out, like very into it-“

“Please go no further.”

“But he seemed freaked out, and I feel like he’s avoiding me. And maybe he’s just always going to be too wrapped up in his wife to move on.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says gently, “You can’t fault him for not being ready to move on. If that’s really what’s happening. And you need to be patient with him. I’m guessing this is the first time he’s gotten close to anyone since she died. He’s not going to be able to just jump into it with no trepidation like you can. People aren’t as fearless as you are, you know. Give him some space. If it’s going to work out, it will. Stop reading the worst into every little thing.”

He knows she’s right, and he needs to hear it, but it also feels like it will be impossible to follow her advice. “So you’re asking me to just chill and step back and have faith?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“And you know exactly how difficult that’s going to be for me?”

“Like this whole thing isn’t difficult for him, too? Why should he be the only one going beyond his comfort zone?”

“Ugh,” he spits out in disgust. “Why are you so _reasonable_ all the time. God.”

He swears he can hear her rolling her eyes. “Goodbye, Stiles. Call me when there’s an update. Like a real one, not one in your head.”

“Affirmative,” he says, and they hang up.

Patience has never been a virtue he possesses, but Lydia’s right. He’s going to screw this up for sure if he pushes too hard. He gets ready for work shortly after hanging up, promising himself to stay cool when Derek returns tomorrow. No matter how hard it is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday weekend means...two chapters posted!
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for your kind comments and your kudos...they mean the world to me, and keep me writing as fast as I can!

Thursday passes painfully slowly, but through a combination of extra work from Deaton and a ridiculously early bedtime, Stiles make it through. He tries not to spend too much of the day worrying about what’s going on in Derek’s head; he remembers how his college therapist told him he didn’t have “rummage rights” to his partners’ brains. Not that Derek is his partner. But still. The principle stands and he knows it.

He also spends the day studiously avoiding Harris and his unsettling vibes. Now that he thinks about it, Harris seemed almost gleeful about showing off Jennifer’s rooms to him…but why?

Stiles tells himself not to expect a morning visit from Derek like he got on his first morning, which is a good call since Friday dawns with no sight of the man. Refusing to worry about it, Stiles gets ready as usual (even if he possibly spends a little longer than normal getting his hair just right, and puts on the jeans that Lydia told him make his booty pop) and goes to work. On a loop in his brain he reminds himself that he needs to let Derek come to him, at least this time. 

Halfway through the workday, Stiles hears Derek’s voice in the Foundation hallway, through the wall of his group office. Erica’s on the phone and Jackson has his earbuds in, so only Stiles notices it – and hopefully they don’t see his ears perking up like a dog’s. It sounds like Derek is talking to Deaton, which is almost certainly about work, so he doesn’t totally expect it when Derek pushes through their office door.

The man looks, frankly, incredible. He’s wearing his more casual travel clothes: extremely well-fitted dark jeans and a buttery soft-looking sweater that clings to his impressive pecs. His hair is just slightly less perfect than usual, meaning it looks even more perfect than usual, and his scruff is thick, like he didn’t have time to shave that morning. Stiles wants to eat him up.

“Hey guys,” he says to the group, but looking at Stiles. Erica holds up a finger to indicate that she’ll be off the phone in a second and Jackson doesn’t turn from his laptop because he can’t hear anything. So Stiles just smirks at them and then beams at Derek.

“Good trip?” he asks.

Derek lets out a gust of breath. “Not exactly. One of the sadder cases. But, it was good in the sense that we accomplished what we set out to do there.”

Stiles knows he could probe for more details – he does work for the Foundation now – but it hardly seems appropriate. If Derek wanted to say more, he would.

Jackson finally looks up and sees Derek, so he yanks out his earbuds and nods at the man. “Hey, Hale. How’s it going?”

Derek shrugs. “You know.” He angles back toward Stiles. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Jackson raises his eyebrows, but isn’t actually interested and pops his earbuds back in, focus back on his screen. Erica’s still chattering away, and sounds like she might actually be getting somewhere with a donor. So Stiles replies, “Sure,” as nonchalantly as possible, and steps into the hallway with Derek.

Derek lets him go first, then pulls the office door shut behind them.

“Hey,” he says to Stiles, with the tiniest upturn at the edges of his mouth.

“Hey yourself. Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” Derek looks a little nervous and tugs on his sweater like he’s too warm. Stiles watches how it shifts against his torso and blushes when Derek catches him looking.

“So,” Derek continues. “it’s the end of your first week, and I thought maybe you’d like to go out and celebrate? We can finally have dinner?”

Stiles wants to jump up squealing but restrains himself nicely. Calmly he asks, “Go out where? I thought there was nothing in this town?”

Derek shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I didn’t say nothing, exactly. I mean, don’t get me wrong – Beacon Hills is not a bustling metropolis. But there are a couple of restaurants. Mostly just for lake tourists, so not amazing food or anything, but I thought you’d be ready to get out of the house.”

Mostly he’s ready to get Derek out of his pants, but he just nods coolly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of the town.”

“Great.” Derek seems relieved, like he thought Stiles would say no. “Do you need to go back to your place beforehand, or should I just come grab you from here around five?”

Since Stiles already put some extra care into his appearance that morning, he’s good to go. “Nah, just find me here.” He reaches out to give Derek’s shoulder a friendly (but non-sexual squeeze), then opens the office door. “See you in a bit?”

“See you,” Derek agrees, looking cautious but hopeful.

*****

The next few hours pass slowly as Stiles tries his best (and fails) to not think about what he believes is a date with Derek. It’s a date, right? They made out, Derek never said it was a mistake, and now he’s taking him out on a Friday night. Stiles likes to find logical connections in everything around him, and the data here is adding up to one conclusion: date.

He could also be taking him out to neutral territory to let him down easy, after spending time in Portland thinking about it all objectively. It’s obviously an unwise decision for them to date, on so many levels, even if Stiles doesn’t care about that. Derek doesn’t seem like someone who makes a lot of unwise decisions.

His brain goes back and forth like this nonstop until he’s exhausted. He occasionally texts Scott for moral support, but Scott’s only good for a mixture of silly emojis and repetitions of “_hang in there, bro!_” and “_relax, man, it’ll be cool!_” None of which is particularly helpful, but it is nice to be reminded that he’s got somebody out there who’s always on his side, no matter how idiotic he’s being.

Just when he’s sure he’s going to crawl out of his skin and run screaming from the building, Derek leans into the doorframe and raps twice on the wall. He hasn’t changed, but he did shave and neaten his hair (pity), and he looks a lot more settled now.

“Now still good?” he asks Stiles, not really paying attention to the other two people in the room. Jackson doesn’t even acknowledge him, but Erica has perked right up and is staring at Derek with a questioning expression.

“Where are you boys going?” she purrs.

“Out,” Derek says flatly, talking to her like she’s a younger sibling. Which she basically is, Stiles figures, if they’ve known each other all their lives.

“How thrilling. Going to introduce Stiles to our charming little town?”

Derek just keeps giving her the same unamused glare until she cackles and goes back to what she was doing. His face softens when he directs it back to Stiles. “Do you want to drive or should I?”

Stiles is oddly touched by Derek’s question, like he’s trying to say he considers them equals, like the obvious power imbalance between them isn’t so obvious. Or like he’s saying there isn’t really a power imbalance at all, it just looks like there is. Stiles tells his brain to stop over-analyzing; it was just a practical question.

“I think I’m gonna let you drive since you know your way around. If I try to talk to you and not get lost, we will…get lost.” Stiles grins, but he’s not joking. He quickly shuts down his computer and collects his stuff, then joins Derek at the doorway. “Lead the way, sir.”

*****

It’s still light outside, so Stiles admires the mountain scenery as they drive and Derek asks him whether he wants to go to the Mexican place or the wannabe-fancy American place. He explains that the latter establishment has white tablecloths and a wine list, but also has grilled cheese on the menu and is frequented by harried parents of small children and elderly couples in hiking gear.

“That’s extremely specific,” Stiles says, frowning. “Like, every time you’re there?”

Derek doesn’t look away from the road, but a smile spreads across his face. “To be fair, I rarely go there. That’s just the impression I’ve gotten every time I have gone there.”

“Mexican it is, then!”

“Good choice,” Derek answers quickly. He obviously had a clear preference at the outset, but still wanted Stiles to choose. Stiles awards him a few more points for that.

They talk idly for the remaining ten minutes of the drive about the mundane aspects of Derek’s trip: his flight, the weather there, how thrilled he was to be able to get amazing coffee easily.

“I mean, there’s a Stumptown in the _airport_ there. Like excellence in coffee is just an essential part of everyday life!” Derek sighs dreamily.

“Have you ever thought about living there? Or, you know, someplace less remote than here?”

Derek pulls up at the restaurant, a small squat building just off the road, decorated with string lights and a hand-painted sign. He turns off the car but remains seated, looking ahead, when he says, “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Then he gets out of the car, and Stiles follows.

Inside, it’s quiet; it’s early yet, and the tourist season is pretty much over. Derek catches the eye of an older woman across the room, who shouts him a warm greeting and tells him to sit anywhere before she disappears into the kitchen. Derek gestures to a table in the back, by a window, raising an eyebrow. Stiles nods and they sit.

Looking back at where the woman vanished, Stiles asks, “Know her, then?”

Derek snorts. “Stiles, I know every single person who lives in this town.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Unless there are any babies. I suppose there could be some new babies I’ve never even seen.”

“Well, that just won’t do, Derek!” Stiles gasps. “Think of the poor babies!”

Derek rolls his eyes. “All right, all right. I just meant…never mind.”

“Nah, I get it,” Stiles says with a big smile. “Just giving you a hard time.”

“You’re good at that,” Derek says, more seriously. Then he looks at Stiles, not saying anything else, and Stiles is trying to figure out how to respond when two menus slap down on their table.

“Derek Hale, you gorgeous creature, I haven’t seen you in ages! Where the hell have you been?”

Derek gives the woman a bashful and extra-charming expression. “Hi, Bridget. Nice to see you, too. This is Stiles – he just started working with Deaton at the Foundation.”

“Bless your sweet heart, young man,” she says as she pours them plastic cups of water.

“It’s a nice town you’ve got here,” he tells Bridget, not really knowing what else to say.

She harumphs and rests her hand on Derek’s head. “Town is fine, but this boy right here is the finest thing in it. I’ll give you two some time with the menus.” She ambles off toward the entrance, where a gray-haired couple in windbreakers have just come in.

His eyes following her, Derek says, “She grew up with my parents,” as if that explains everything.

“Cool,” Stiles says, staring at the menu. “Hey, what should I order? Like, what’s good here?”

Derek looks conflicted. “Nothing is exactly…good? But nothing is bad, either. I basically recommend anything that’s smothered in cheese and sour cream.”

“Sold!” Stiles declares, dropping his menu back on the table. He steals a glance at Bridget, but she’s still busy with the other couple. Now would be a perfect time to talk, but he promised himself he wouldn’t push Derek.

But Derek doesn’t need to be pushed, apparently. “So,” he says softly.

Stiles looks him in the eye, purses his lips into a half smile. “So.”

“I’m sorry if I seemed…freaked out the other night.”

Stiles drinks his water and waits for him to continue.

“Truthfully, I was freaked out. I mean I am freaked out.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, anxiety tightening his chest.

“I…I like you, okay?”

Stiles can’t hold back a smile at that. “Okay.”

“But I’m…really bad at this. Like really bad. And I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m 34 and I’ve only really been with two people.”

One of whom was your beloved, perfect wife, Stiles reminds himself.

“I’m not sure if you think I’m the king of experience or something; I mean, if you do, awesome. But I’m not. I dated around a lot in college, but nothing serious. But…what do you mean, you’re bad at it? Just because you aren’t some Casanova?”

Derek barks out a bitter laugh. “No. I mean I have a bad track record. And you’re in a pretty precarious position up here. You just left everyone and everything you know in order to take a job at my company, in my town, in my _house_. When I screw it all up – because I will – that’s going to be a disaster. And you don’t deserve that.” He’s not looking at Stiles, just staring down at the table.

“First of all,” Stiles counters impatiently. “I have a lot more agency than you’re suggesting and you don’t have near the amount of power over me you think you do.” That draws a very surprised look from Derek. “If I need to I will not hesitate to put my shit in my Jeep and leave. Secondly, I’m just as liable to screw anything up as you are. I’m young and impulsive and naïve about a lot of things. And thirdly – pessimism is not my style. If I didn’t do things because they might go badly I wouldn’t have done half the shit I’ve done in my life.”

Derek raises one eyebrow. “I think it’s pretty obvious – and I think this conversation is a stellar example – that we are very, very different people.”

“And?” Stiles demands. “Are you hoping to find a clone to date? Personally, I get enough of myself, I want to hang out with someone who keeps it interesting.”

“Hell, what do I know about compatibility,” Derek mutters, rubbing his forehead, eyes closed.

“Look, I’ll be straight with you. You said you like me. I like you, too. And you’ve got reservations, I get that. It’s not like I feel I have nothing to lose. It’s just that you…seem worth it.” Stiles swallows and waits.

Derek’s looking at him now, his expression open and unguarded. He fiddles with his napkin.

“So I haven’t sufficiently scared you off? That was kinda my goal,” he says, half-jokingly.

“Derek,” Stiles says seriously. “If you’re ready to move on…I’d like to give this a try.”

Derek’s eyes twitch when Stiles says “move on,” but it’s gone in a flash. He reaches out and takes Stiles’ hands in his own. “Me too.”

Derek quickly pulls his hands back when Bridget reappears a moment later, but Stiles tells himself: baby steps.

*****

Back at the house, after a pleasant dinner of mediocre enchiladas, Derek parks and then walks Stiles to his door. Stiles definitely would not have been averse to them continuing to hang out, whether or not it led to more tongues in mouths, but Derek’s obviously a little overwhelmed as it is, so he’s determined to follow his lead.

Before he puts his key in the door, Stiles turns to face Derek.

“Thank you for tonight. For dinner, but also, just…being willing to try.”

Derek’s brow furrows subtly, but his gaze is warm. “I can’t promise anything, Stiles. But if I fail at this, please know it has nothing to do with you.”

“Obviously,” Stiles fake-scoffs, then smiles. “So, I’ll see you around?”

“Actually.” Derek clears his throat. “I know we just hung out tonight, so feel free to say no. But Cora, my sister, she’s coming over for lunch tomorrow. And you guys are close in age and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to meet more of the young people in Beacon Hills, and-“

Stiles places one hand on Derek’s admirable pectorals, loving the soft feel of the wool of his sweater under his palm. “Stop with the hard sell, dude. Sounds great. Text me a time?”

Derek nods, and exhales. Stiles can feel it through the man’s chest. He flickers his eyes up from where his hand is splayed on Derek to Derek’s beautiful eyes. Derek brings his own hand up to Stiles’ jaw, cupping it lightly as he leans in and brushes his lips against Stiles’. It’s barely a kiss, but it speaks volumes.

“Good night, Stiles.” His voice is low, and full of promise.

Suppressing a shiver, Stiles croaks out, “Night night.” Then he stumbles into his apartment, knowing what he’ll dream about tonight.


	10. Chapter 10

When Stiles wakes up the next morning and remembers the night before, he feels a jolt of happy excitement. He and Derek are actually happening, after months of him wondering if it was even possible. He’s giddy about what the future might hold.

But he’s less excited about meeting Cora. Derek texted him before he woke up and said he was going out on an errand, but he would be back by the time Cora arrived, around 11 or so. 

Stiles needs a pep talk, so he calls his dad before even getting out of bed.

“Morning, son.” His dad sounds exhausted.

“Hey, Dad – you’re not just getting off shift, are you?” Stiles hates waking his dad up after he’s worked all night.

“Not exactly, just a lot going on, a lotta extra hours for everybody. But I have a minute here. What’s up, kiddo?”

Stiles twiddles with the edge of his comforter. “Well, I have news, sort of.”

“You and Derek are together.”

Stiles gasps. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, please, kid – like you’ve ever not gotten anything you set your mind to getting. But I’m guessing you’re not calling just to make that announcement?”

“You’re right, as usual,” Stiles sighs. “And yes, we have decided to date each other, but it’s very new and nothing has really happened and I don’t know what will happen, so don’t start planning the wedding yet.”

“Noted,” his father says dryly.

“So,” Stiles goes on, “as part of the whole ‘getting started’ thing, he’s introducing me to his little sister, who’s about my age.”

“Ah,” says the Sheriff. “So you’re worried about a repeat of the Samantha incident.”

“Yup. And…I like Derek a lot more than I liked Samantha.”

“Hmmm,” his dad murmurs. “So, correct me if I’ve got this wrong, but Samantha broke up with you because her family didn’t like you, right?”

“Pretty much. I believe they used words like ‘loud’ and ‘a bit much.’”

“Well, son – you are loud and a bit much, which is what I and everyone else who loves you appreciates about you. Some of what we appreciate about you, anyway.”

Stiles smiles. “Thanks, Dad. I think you’re a little biased, but I appreciate it anyway.”

“Nonsense,” his dad scoffs. “Anybody who doesn’t see, right away, that you’re a fantastic catch is a damn idiot. If this Cora person is dim enough to dislike you, and if Derek is enough of a spineless nimrod to let her influence his feelings for you, then to hell with both of ‘em.”

“Wow, Dad, nimrod? Really? I like it.”

“Stiles. I mean it. You’ve got a hell of a lot going for you and you deserve to be with someone who can see that as easily as I can. You feel like you’re the one being tested today, but maybe it’s Derek that’s being tested. Think about it that way. Is he good enough for you?”

“You mean the blindingly gorgeous guy who saves sick children for a living? Pretty sure he’s good enough. But I get your point. And thank you. This was actually helpful.”

“Good.” Stiles hears his dad take a slurp of something. “Now let me caffeinate in peace before I go back to work. Love you, kid.”

“Love you, too, Dad.” Stiles hits the end-call button and just lies there, head ensconced in the pillow and eyes trained on the ceiling. He does actually feel a little better, but still slightly panicked. He’s got a few hours yet, so he’s going to call Scott and make him play some video games with him for a distraction.

*****

Derek had told Stiles that he would be back at the house just as Cora was arriving, and to join them in Derek’s rooms then. Stiles didn’t love the idea of walking in to meet the sibling alone, having hoped that Derek would accompany him. But Derek doesn’t know that he’s irrationally nervous about the meeting, so he can hardly fault him for not being telepathic.

It’s raining again outside, as it has been doing most days, and Stiles wants to avoid looking like a drowned rat when Cora sees him for the first time. Earlier in the week he had noticed a heavy door at the back of a small corridor in his apartment and now, just as it’s approaching 11, he decides to investigate it. Maybe it will lead him into the main part of the house without his having to go outside? Maybe it will also kill some time and give him an excuse for being a little late?

The door is old, unlike most of the rest of the apartment, and although it isn’t locked it is swollen shut, obviously unused for many years. After some heavy grunting and yanking, Stiles manages to get it unstuck and opens it to reveal a dark hallway. And although he may be afraid of the younger sisters of the men he dates, he’s definitely not afraid of a spooky dark hallway in a super-old house, so he plows forward.

The hallway winds around a few different corners, eventually ending up in what must be the staff area of the house, which is probably why Derek didn’t tell him to use it. Stiles sees a kitchen area and a series of closed doors that look well-used, unlike the one he just went through, and the hallway is brighter and cleaner. It continues on, though, and he can’t resist following it to the end, where it leads into another tiny room containing only a frail iron staircase, headed upward in a spiral. The room containing the staircase is filthy and there’s a solid inch of dust on the stairs. Obviously he has to climb them.

The stairs go up and up and up, not landing on multiple floors but leading only to the top floor of the house. Stiles discovers this when he opens the door at the top of the stairs and finds himself in the corridor of Jennifer’s rooms, on the opposite end of where he entered the last time. He’s directly facing the open doorway of the last room in the hall, one he hadn’t seen the last time: an opulent bedroom with an enormous window looking out to the lake. 

Stiles is trying to process what he’s seeing when Harris emerges from the room next door, holding a feather duster. Does he really work on Saturdays? And isn’t dusting sort of outside his job description? Stiles knows the house employs a crew of cleaners who come in several times a week.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he says, sounding oddly pleased.

“Hey, Harris – I’m sorry, I think I got turned around.” Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, feeling nervous about the interaction but not really understanding why.

“It’s not a problem, sir – it’s a lovely room, isn’t it?” Harris looks through the doorway into the bedroom Stiles just found, a dreamy expression on his normally pinched face.

“Uhhhh…yeah. Yes. Nice view.”

“You know, I’d be happy to show you the rest of the rooms up here. Any time you like.”

“Oh,” Stiles laughs nervously, “that’s cool. I didn’t even mean to come up here, I was kind of exploring and just wound up here.”

“It’s really no trouble, any time. They are such beautiful rooms. Perhaps you’d even like to consider moving into them yourself? I could speak to Mr. Hale about it.” He adds the last part in an almost-conspiratorial tone, like he’s suggesting something naughty.

“No!” Stiles says too quickly. “Nope, no, I’m very happy where I am. Anyway, I need to go find Derek.”

“Yes,” Harris replies coldly, “he and Miss Cora have been waiting.”

“Shit.” At Harris’s disgusted glare he apologizes quickly. “Sorry, I just didn’t realize the time,” he lies.

“Do you need me to show you the way to Mr. Hale’s rooms?”

“No, no, I’m good. Thanks.”

When he reaches the end of the hallway that deposits him into the main area of the house, Stiles steals a backward glance, to find Harris still watching him, intently.

*****

Unsurprisingly, Cora is beautiful. Although her eyes are dark, unlike Derek’s multi-colored ones, she’s got the same ivory skin and smooth black hair, and a body to die for. She’s dressed casually in tight black jeans and an oversized black sweater, no makeup on her face. 

“So here he is, finally,” she says in a low, calm voice when Stiles hurries into the room, a little breathless.

Stiles gulps and smiles, extending a hand to Cora. She doesn’t smile, but takes his hand and searches his face with her eyes. Derek steps up next to Stiles and gives him an encouraging look, then gestures to the young man sitting on the sofa behind Cora.

“Stiles, this is my sister, Cora, obviously, and this is Isaac, her boyfriend.”

Isaac is exceedingly tall, even sitting down, with a mop of lustrous, curly hair and sky-high cheekbones. He raises one hand in a wave, then reaches up to grab Cora’s hand and yank her down onto the couch next to him. Derek settles a hand low on Stiles’ back and steers him to the other sofa, across from Cora and Isaac.

When they’re all seated, Cora fixes her cool gaze on Stiles again and announces, “You’re very different than I expected. Not like Derek described you at all.” At that, Isaac winces and Derek makes a sound of surprise, alarm, or irritation – Stiles can’t tell which.

Cora obviously can, and she flashes a brilliant grin at her brother. “You, brother dear, are looking very well indeed.” Turning back to Stiles, she says, “I guess we have you to thank you for that, huh?”

Isaac groans and swats Cora’s arm, but nothing wipes the satisfied smirk off her face.

“I’m always well,” Derek insists stiffly. “Not sure what you’re implying.”

“Oh please, Der, this entire past year you’ve been like a walking corpse. Remember when we were here at Easter and I told you I thought he was on the verge of a total breakdown?” she asks Isaac eagerly.

Isaac just looks at her and purses his lips, obviously used to how brash she is. At least Stiles didn’t have to worry about being the most overbearing person in the room.

“You do look very content,” Isaac says evenly in response to Derek’s growl at his sister. Stiles can feel the rigid line of Derek’s tense body next to him; he’s obviously very annoyed at his sister for picking on his mental state, or for bringing it up in front of Stiles.

“And you guys are dating, so it’s reasonable for me to assume that Stiles is the cause of your good cheer,” she shrugs. “Right, Stiles?” she adds with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Rendering Stiles speechless is no easy task, but Cora’s accomplished it. He’s struggling for how to respond – he didn’t even know anyone knew they were dating, given that it’s only been an actual thing for less than a day – when Derek places one hand on his knee.

“Cora,” he warns. “Back off. Don’t make me regret telling you. Stiles and I literally just started dating and I’m not going to let you bully him about it.”

“Ugh,” she scoffs, flipping a wall of shiny hair over her shoulder. “You’re no fun, as always. Stiles, what’s the appeal in a fuddy duddy like this, anyway?”

“Well, the first time we spent any real time together he did like eight shots of Jager and ate two plates of nachos in under two minutes, so…” Stiles gives Derek an impish smile, hoping it’s okay to turn the focus off of Stiles and back on to Derek.

Derek just rolls his eyes good naturedly and Stiles tells Cora and Isaac about the rest of their Roadhouse adventure. Cora seems delighted to hear about her brother actually partying and has considerably warmed up after the group spends a while chatting. They stick to pretty neutral topics: how Stiles likes working at the Foundation, Cora’s job as a freelance writer, and Isaac’s current obsession with UFC wrestling, which Cora can’t stand.

Conversation turns to how Stiles is liking Beacon Hills. “What are you going to do for fun here, besides my brother?” she asks with an eyebrow waggle.

“Christ, Cora,” Derek breathes into the hands now covering his face.

Stiles decides he rather likes Cora. “You know, the other place I’d be living right now is Barstow, so I’m used to making my own fun.” He blushes when Cora’s eyebrows waggle even harder at that. “I mean I do a lot of reading, play video games with my buddy, go running when I feel like torturing myself.”

Cora shudders. “Gross, exercise. I guess you and Derek have that in common. He’s got a gym here in the house, has he shown you?”

“He has not,” Stiles says devilishly, smiling at Derek and picturing him doing shirtless bench presses. Derek totally reads his mind and rolls his eyes, suppressing his own smile.

“I swam in high school, but I’m pretty much a lump now, with this one here,” says Isaac, who’s illustrating his point by being draped across Cora, eyes closed.

“Oh man, I do love swimming,” Stiles says. “How’s the swimming in the lake here? Is it safe?”

The room goes utterly silent as Stiles realizes what a fucking idiot he is. No one moves and Stiles doesn’t dare risk a glance at Derek. Saving him, Cora swoops right over the comment and says, “I totally fell for Isaac because of that Speedo he wore in high school.” Everyone chuckles, just to break the mood.

Fortunately, just then Alice comes in to let everyone know that lunch has been served in the main dining room and they can head on in any time. As they stand up and prepare to exit, Cora makes a beeline for Stiles, grabs his elbow, and marches him out into the hall ahead of the other men.

“I wanted you to myself for a minute,” she confesses, glancing behind her at Derek and Isaac, who seem content to talk to each other and leave Cora and Stiles alone.

“Okay,” Stiles utters weakly, wondering what she’s got in store for him.

“You’re a lot younger than I expected. Derek didn’t tell me you were a child.” Her words are harsh, but her tone is kind.

“I’m a college graduate,” Stiles says defensively, knowing he can’t deny being young.

“Whatever, it’s cool,” she says breezily. “What I want to know is: are you in love with my brother?”

Stiles chokes and nearly trips over his own feet. “We got together _yesterday_, isn’t it a little early for that?” 

Cora just pats his arm and continues leading him to the dining room. “It’s cool, I can see everything I need to know in your face. I know I’m a pain in the ass, by the way, but I really, really love my brother, even though I give him a hard time. And he does seem a lot happier. I was really getting worried about him.”

“I respect that,” Stiles says sincerely.

“Honestly, I was pretty shocked when Derek told me he was seeing somebody. I didn’t think he’d ever be in a relationship again.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say.

“But I’m happy, don’t get me wrong,” she adds. “And I really hope you guys will be happy.” And as nice as the sentiment is, there’s a tiny note of doubt in her voice that troubles Stiles.

Seeming not to need Stiles to hold up his end of the conversation, which he’s definitely not used to, Cora goes on. “My brother and I are nothing alike. You can read me like an open book – obviously. It’s never a mystery what I’m thinking or feeling. But Derek’s the opposite. You never know what’s going on in that weird brain of his.”

You’re telling me, Stiles thinks. The group merges as they enter the dining room, where Leo has prepared an array of salad ingredients so that each person can design their own meal.

“Seriously, Derek?” Cora demands. “Fucking salad?”

Derek elbows her and makes a face and they all get their food and sit down. It’s a pleasant lunch; they remain on safe topics and Stiles finds himself very fond of both guests. Once in a while he catches Cora staring at him with a puzzled, reflective look on her face, and he imagines she’s wondering what on earth Derek sees in him. Hell, he can’t blame her – he wonders that himself. And there doesn’t seem to be any malice there, just genuine curiosity.

Derek tells Cora that they really need to go visit their grandmother since it’s been a while. She groans, but agrees. “She’s totally gone to the world, Der, but whatever you say.”

As the conversation goes on, and after their plates have been cleared, Derek takes Stiles’ hand in his, in clear view of the others, which causes a thrill to run down Stiles’ spine. It feels like a proper declaration. With the pleasant chatter, the rhythm of the rain on the walls outside, and Derek’s warm hand in his, he’s feeling very glad about his choice to come to Beacon Hills. He can have a great life here, he knows it.

When they bid the guests goodbye, Cora pulls Stiles into a tight hug and then, satisfied that the other men aren’t paying attention, says, “Sorry for my probing questions and whatever rude shit I said. Tact is not my strong suit, just ask Derek. But I couldn’t help myself! You’re so not what I expected, at all.” She tilts her head and gives Stiles a long, considering look.

She whispers, “It’s just…you’re so completely different from Jennifer.”

The group moves closer to the door and Cora and Isaac run out to their car, yelping and laughing in the downpour. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles and tugs him close. As good as the warmth and pressure of Derek’s body feels, Stiles can’t get Cora’s final words out of his head.


	11. Chapter 11

Once Cora’s driven off and Derek and Stiles have returned to his living room, Derek bursts out with a question he looks like he’s been dying to ask.

“What was she grilling you about, before?” His eyes are worried as he settles down onto the couch they were on before, patting the seat beside him.

“Eh,” Stiles waves his hand in a show of nonchalance as he sits, “just protective-sister stuff. And she really enjoyed telling me how different I was from her expectations.”

Derek’s eyebrows go tangled and puzzled. “I wonder what, exactly, she expected. Well, the thing about Cora is…she’s a genuinely good person, but she tends to put her foot in it. She doesn’t mean any harm.”

Stiles shrugs and leans in a little closer to Derek, hoping the contact will be welcome. It is, apparently; Derek shifts to wrap his arm around him and then they’re both leaning back against the cushions, nicely entwined. “I liked her, actually. I can relate to people who are…larger than life.”

Derek barks out a laugh. “That is one way to describe her, I guess.” He runs the arm wrapped around Stiles up and down Stiles’ bicep, squeezing fondly. “You did well with her, that’s no easy feat.”

“Isaac seems cool.”

Derek nods. “He’s a good guy. They’ve been together forever. He grounds her, I think.”

“They’re a ridiculously attractive couple,” Stiles says as he crosses his left hand over his body to clasp the one Derek’s got on his arm.

Derek makes a sound of pretend alarm. “More attractive than we are?”

“Obviously not,” Stiles huffs. “That was never even a question. We are in a league by ourselves.”

Derek hums an amused little sound, murmurs, “Indeed,” and nuzzles into Stiles further. 

Stiles remains as still as he can, afraid to move and break the spell. He’s never seen Derek this warm and affectionate. It’s incredibly gratifying, but then an upsetting thought occurs to him.

“Hey,” he says, without looking at Derek. “I’m glad I did well with Cora. But if I hadn’t…would that have been a deal-breaker?”

Derek sits up so he can look Stiles more directly in the face, and he’s wearing a confused expression.

“First of all, Stiles, it was never a question of whether she would like you or not. I was only concerned that you might find her a bit too much to handle. But secondly, even if she had pronounced you the scum of the earth, I would have just kicked her out and told her to call me when she’d gotten over herself.”

Warmth spreads through Stiles’ chest. “Seriously?” he asks.

Derek’s quizzical look deepens into a soft frown. “Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Stiles squeezes Derek’s fingers in appreciation. “That means a lot to me, actually.”

Derek raises one eyebrow and asks, “Is the bar really that low?”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head and looking down at his lap. “Not in every respect. But I’ve…had some bad experiences. I guess you could say.”

“You and me both,” Derek says lowly, his expression clouded and his gaze directed straight ahead.

Stiles wants to ask questions about Jennifer, of course he does, but he also knows that it needs to be on Derek’s initiative. Derek himself admitted this is his first relationship since she died, and Stiles is committed to letting them both ease into this. (Even if he’s already completely gone on the guy; at least he can conceal that for now.)

“Should we do something fun?” Stiles asks to lighten the mood. “It is the weekend.”

Derek rests his head back against the sofa but doesn’t let go of Stiles’ arm. “What did you have in mind?” He’s noticeably more relaxed, probably relieved that Stiles didn’t probe into his last statement.

“Well, anything outdoors is clearly out. And I don’t feel like driving in this weather, either. We could…watch movies?” (Make out, he means.)

Derek grins like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking. “I like movies.”

“That works out nicely,” Stiles responds. “My place or yours?”

*****

Stiles insists that they need to procure snacks from the kitchen before they start a movie marathon, which appalls Derek. (“We _just_ had lunch, Stiles!”) The joke is on Stiles, though – Derek’s kitchen contains only plain yogurt, various bagged leafy greens, frozen salmon burgers and an assortment of nuts. Stiles makes a sound of disgust when Derek suggests apples, which are in the crisper drawer Stiles didn’t check.

“Derek, I am becoming very concerned that you do not know how to have fun,” he says as he leans back against the refrigerator, heaving a deep sigh.

“Is that so,” Derek says smoothly as he stalks over to Stiles and boxes him in against the fridge, leaning in to brush his nose against Stiles’ cheek.

“Yup!” Stiles squeaks, letting his eyes fall shut, heart suddenly racing. 

“I don’t know, Stiles, I think I know a few things about having a good time.” He slides his face against Stiles’ until his mouth is on Stiles’ ear, and he bites down on his earlobe lightly, eliciting another squeak.

“Der,” he breathes, eyes still closed.

“Mmmmm?” Derek asks as he trails down to the side of Stiles’ neck, leaving a series of chaste, tiny kisses. He smells so good, like some strange combination of leather, rain, and cinnamon. Stiles inhales deeply and feels a tingle traveling through him all the way down to his toes, which curl inside his sneakers.

“Movies?” he manages to ask in a broken voice as he brings his arms up from where they’ve been gripping the sides of the fridge to bury them in Derek’s hair. He gets a deep, pleased grunt in response to the movement and nestles his fingers deeper into Derek’s scalp.

“Right, movies,” Derek whispers as he kisses his way to Stiles’ lips. He gives him one soft closed-mouth kiss, then pulls back, Stiles’ hands falling away from his head. “So do you want apples or not?”

Half of Stiles’ brain is now in his pants and he just looks at Derek blankly. “No apples. Apples bad.”

Derek grins, a glint in his eye as he steps backward and takes Stiles’ hand. 

Maybe it’s true that he’s nothing like Derek’s beloved late wife. Maybe that’s okay.

*****

Two hours later, zero movies have been watched (or even started), and both men are sporting swollen lips and wildly tousled hair. They’d relocated to Derek’s room, but to the small couch in the corner near the TV, not Derek’s bed. Stiles thinks Derek might be sending him a signal with that, which is fine with him; he isn’t in a rush.

It’s torture, of course, to be tasting Derek and smelling him and touching him, his body screaming out for more, his dick a steel rod in his pants. He knows Derek must be feeling the same and is about to suggest they cool it for a bit when Derek pulls back and smiles at him. They’re lying side by side on the sofa.

“You know, I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you since the first time I saw you by that pool in Palm Springs,” Derek says with half-lidded eyes, his pointer finger tracing feather-light lines on Stiles’ plush bottom lip.

“What?” Stiles gasps. “Me?”

Derek frowns and removes his finger, bending over to give Stiles a soft peck. “What do you mean, you? You’re gorgeous.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes, his eyes firmly shut as he prays for the strength to not pass out. “Oh my god.”

Derek chuckles and pulls them closer together, so they’re sort of in a lying-down hug. Stiles licks the nearest patch of skin to his mouth and Derek laughs again, his body jerking at the unexpected wet touch.

“I can’t believe you find that so surprising.”

“I’m sorry, man, but have you seen you? I didn’t think someone like you would even register me on the romantic spectrum.” Stiles is speaking, slightly muffled, into Derek’s collarbone. He can just barely hear the rhythm of Derek’s heart.

One of Derek’s strong hands comes up to stroke Stiles’ hair. It feels so good.

“Well,” Derek says after a pause, “you happen to be exactly my type.”

Stiles wonders how that can be true, since he’s very, very different from the man’s former wife, as Cora herself pointed out, and who must have been his type, too. But he’s not pointing that out.

“And then I opened my mouth and you were dazzled by my wit and scholarship?”

“Mmmm, something like that,” Derek answers. “Mostly I was just impressed you could handle that terrible woman you were with and not absolutely lose it.”

Stiles shrugs as well as he can when shrouded by 200 pounds of muscle. “She wasn’t that bad, honestly. Once I knew how to handle her.”

“I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore,” Derek says quietly.

“Me too,” Stiles agrees.

“I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

Stiles pulls out of the embrace just enough to look Derek in the eye. “You said you didn’t bring me here for…this, us. Is that really true?”

Derek flushes deep pink and blinks a few times. “I guess…it wasn’t exactly true, no. I just…couldn’t stop thinking about you. I saw a path forward and I…just took it.” He looks a little scared, like Stiles is going to feel smothered or trapped or stalked.

Instead, Stiles leans in to kiss the man, slow and deep and with meaning.

“Good. Because that is absolutely fucking why I came here.”

*****

They kiss a little more after talking, but Derek doesn’t make any moves to take it further and Stiles isn’t going to force it. They do still have a lot of getting to know each other to do.

So they watch a couple movies after all, resting their heads on opposite arms of the couch, their bodies pressed together. Occasionally Derek massages Stiles’ feet or Stiles squeezes one of Derek’s toes. They chatter lightly throughout the movie, poking fun at the mediocre comedy or asking questions about each other as they think of them.

When Stiles gets back to his room, after a late dinner together that fortunately did not come out of Derek’s kitchen, his back is sore from the couch and his head is spinning with excitement. Derek is kinder, and funnier, and smarter every time he unveils himself a little more to Stiles, and their effortless chemistry is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Stiles has to jerk off three times that night before he can fall asleep, but at least he’s got plenty to fantasize about.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the rating has gone up...

The next couple of weeks pass pretty smoothly. Stiles and Derek continue to hang out when they’re not working (and Derek’s not out of town), and it’s more of the same: good talks, banter, kissing and some mild groping. Derek lets his guard down a little more every day, and Stiles builds up his confidence. It’s fun, and promising.

Erica, of course, has a field day when she finds out about them. A few days after Cora’s visit, she sneaks up behind Stiles in the Foundation kitchen and shouts “You!” at the top of her lungs, causing Stiles to shriek and toss the cup of coffee he was pouring across the counter. It doesn’t break, he notes gratefully.

“You little devil,” she purrs, getting right up in his personal space. “You bagged the finest man in Beacon Hills – hell, probably in all of northern California, and I didn’t even see it coming!”

Stiles furrows his brow. “Well that’s kind of insulting. Am I not an eligible young man myself?”

She scoffs. “Let’s not even play that game. I mean, you’re cute as hell, but – but DEREK.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Derek.”

They both take a silent moment to honor the man’s beauty before she starts back up again.

“Anyway, what the fuck! How did this happen? I seriously thought he was never gonna move on. Did you put the moves on him? How? I want details.” She settles into one of the metal chairs in the kitchen, eagerly awaiting his story.

“Um,” he starts as he looks around for a towel to mop up the coffee spill. “It wasn’t like one moment or anything. We met a while ago, back in August, and just kept spending time together and hitting it off, and then I came up here-“

“Riiiiiight,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously. “That’s quite the booty call, bringing you here to the boondocks and stashing you away in his mansion.”

Stiles makes an impatient sound and drops the towel he’d found. “No, stop right there. It wasn’t sleazy like that. I actually did need a job and Derek did actually think I’d be good at this one and don’t pretend like I’m not.”

She shrugs, as if to concede his point.

“You could say there was a motivation there, sure. But this whole thing…it’s been sort of organic. And it’s still very much in its infancy, so can we not make a huge deal out of it?”

“Uhhhh, no, sorry, it is a huge deal. The Widower Hale is bedding down with a boy toy who was in kindergarten when he started college?”

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Stiles huffs.

“But only slight.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Just admit this is a big deal and I’ll drop it. For now.”

“Well, it is a big deal to me. For my own reasons.”

Just then Jackson saunters in to put his protein shake in the refrigerator. He looks bored. “What are you two losers talking about? What’s the big deal, Stiles?”

Stiles tries to tell Erica to shut up with his eyes, but it doesn’t work. She animatedly tells Jackson, “Stiles is banging Hale.”

“What? Derek Hale?” Jackson is incredulous. “What in the hell?”

Stiles rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and folds his arms over his chest. “You guys really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Jackson chides dismissively. “I can’t believe he’s dating. He was fucking devoted to Jennifer. Unbelievably broken up after she died. It was like he died, too.” Jackson shudders. “That was an ugly time.”

Erica murmurs quiet agreement. “But the guy shouldn’t be celibate forever, should he?” Stiles thinks she might be taking his side and sends her a grateful look.

“Whatever, who cares,” Jackson yawns as he leaves the kitchen. “Stiles, Deaton is looking for you.”  
Never so relieved to get back to work in his life, Stiles gives Erica a tight smile and scurries out, his new cup of coffee poured but forgotten.

*****

On yet another rainy night, a Wednesday before Derek has to fly out to Colorado, he and Stiles share a bottle of wine on Stiles’ couch, some reality TV show muted in the background. They’re side by side, but Stiles has one leg slung over Derek’s lap and his head resting on Derek’s shoulder. 

Emboldened by the delicious Zinfandel Derek had pulled from his parents’ old wine cellar, Stiles tells Derek all about his mom, her illness, and the fallout from her death when he was a kid.

“My dad sort of lost it,” he says, tracing a finger around the rim of his wine glass as he stares at the ruby liquid. “He might have broken down completely if he hadn’t been responsible for me. I guess that makes me feel both relieved and guilty, you know?” He takes a cautious look at Derek’s face, willing him to understand.

“I think so,” Derek answers slowly. “I hadn’t thought about the fact that I never had to see one of my parents lose the other. They were a complete unit, in all ways, totally devoted to each other. I know a lot of couples fall apart after losing a child, but my parents got even closer after my brother died. Either of them losing the other would have destroyed them.”

Stiles makes a sympathetic, comforting sound and nestles in closer to Derek.

“Thank you,” Derek says quietly. “It brings me a little peace to think about it that way. Like there was some sort of blessing in everything that happened.”

And then he tells Stiles all about the accident, how he and Cora were meant to have been in the car too, so the entire family could go spend a weekend on the Oregon coast. But Cora had decided last minute that she wanted to try out for the third-grade play after school, and Derek was the one who drove her home from school every day, the high school being next to the elementary school. He was going to drive the two of them to Oregon himself, which he ruefully admits he was super excited about, having just gotten his own car. But the accident happened before he and Cora ever left the school, just a few miles from Hale House. It was raining and the family had been knocked off the road and down a cliff by a tractor-trailer – the driver said he lost visibility in the rain.

Derek’s breath is halting and his speech labored as he tells the story, like he hasn’t done so in years. It’s obvious how much guilt he still carries, 17 years later, and how the grief somehow became an integral part of him. Like a heavy mantle he forces himself to wear because he doesn’t deserve not to.

Stiles wants to tell him that it wouldn’t have made anything better if he and Cora had died, too, but he knows it wouldn’t make a difference. He knows that losing people makes you irrational, and that clinging to guilt or anger can feel like keeping some small part of them alive. It’s not his place to tell Derek how to feel, and he knows it won’t help if he tells him he’s sorry or starts spouting platitudes. So he just sighs deeply and entangles their fingers, and says nothing.

*****

When Derek returns from Colorado he goes straight to Stiles’ apartment, as it’s a Saturday morning. Stiles opens the door to find a grinning Derek, looking devastatingly handsome in a forest-green Henley, holding on to a huge Husky by its collar.

“Well, this is new,” Stiles says pleasantly before leaning in to kiss Derek lightly on the lips. Derek reels him back in when he goes to pull away and deepens the kiss briefly before stepping back.

“This is Maxim, Cora and Isaac’s dog. I’m dog-sitting this weekend while they take advantage of the lack of rain and go camping.”

“And Maxim doesn’t like to camp?” questions Stiles.

“She said they wanted to be ‘extra alone’ in the tent and I really didn’t want to know more than that,” he replies with a grimace.

“Got it,” says Stiles, ruffling the dog’s fuzzy head. “So we have a buddy for the day?” The words slip out before he realizes he shouldn’t assume Derek is going to spend his Saturday with him.

But Derek just says, “Looks that way,” with a ready smile. “You all dressed and ready? Want to come upstairs, have some breakfast?”

Maxim just sits there, staring at Stiles, his eyes heavy with judgment.

“Dude, does the dog always look at people like that?”

Derek cocks his head. “…like what?”

“Never mind. Breakfast sounds great!”

*****

After coffee and omelets whipped up by Leo (Stiles could really get used to having a personal chef), Maxim dozing on a folded-up blanket in the corner of the dining room, Derek asks Stiles what he wants to do for the day.

Stiles stabs his final bite of food onto his fork, pops it into his mouth, and makes a thinking face.

“I dunno. Will you be there?”

“Um,” Derek looks confused. “Yes?”

“Then I’m good. Whatever we do.”

Derek blushes. “You’re easy to please.”

“You have no idea,” Stiles says seriously, causing Derek to drop his fork. Stiles knows he can’t be the only one experiencing some serious sexual frustration.

“Well,” Derek says once he’s regained his composure, “I realized it’s been raining pretty much nonstop since you got here, and today’s your first clear weekend day. The grounds here are beautiful, with some great paths and views of the lake, if you just wanted to go exploring outside for a while? Gives the dog some exercise, too.” He wears a cautiously hopeful expression, like he fully expects Stiles to tell him it’s a terrible idea.

“That sounds great,” Stiles says instead. “I have been wanting to explore, and to be shown around by the master of the house? Oh my!”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s me,” he says in a deadpan. He throws back the last of his coffee and then gets up, gesturing for Stiles to do the same. Then they’re strapping on Maxim’s thick leather lead and taking him out the front door.

“This is honestly the most beautiful time of year, here,” Derek boasts. “Plenty’s still in bloom but it’s not hot anymore, and some of the leaves are changing.” He tugs on Maxim’s leash and leads them over to a small, pebbled trail that branches away from the left side of the house.

“There’s a little valley I want to show you,” he says eagerly, “with an amazing view. Maybe we can even sit and stay a while,” he adds, nudging Stiles suggestively.

Stiles offers a faux gasp of shock and then grins back at Derek, a little dazzled by the impressive foliage that deepens around them as they get further from the house.

They walk for some time, Derek chatting happily about this and that – apparently the trip to Colorado had been a good one, with a little girl going into an unexpected remission. He tells Stiles every detail of the trip, unlike his usual silence on the topic of his work travels, and Stiles basks in how openly he’s sharing his world with him. He feels a great swell of hope in his chest for this, for everything.

They come to a fork in the path, but when Derek tries to steer the party to the left, Maxim barks and races off to the right. They hadn’t been holding the lead for a while now, the dog seemingly so well trained that he would stay obediently beside them. And now they can’t even see him, he’s gotten so far down along the other way, obscured by tall native shrubs and sprawling live oak trees.

“Shit,” Derek blurts out angrily, his face transformed from its former happy glow. He looks positively furious, and simultaneously terrified. Stiles just giggles at his overreaction.

“No big deal, man, let’s just go after him. I’d love to check out what’s that way, anyway.”

“No,” Derek says firmly, a little too loudly. “He’ll come back eventually. Let’s not go traipsing through all that; there’s bound to be ticks and poison oak in there.” He tugs on Stiles’ shirt sleeve and starts walking down the other path. “Idiot dog,” he mutters to himself.

“Wait,” Stiles cries, a little freaked out by Derek’s behavior and sudden change of demeanor. “What if it’s not safe for him, either? Can’t dogs get ticks?”

Derek shakes his head in frustration and spits out that the dog will be fine and will find his way back, he’s done it enough times before. But Stiles pretends like he didn’t hear him and goes after the dog, maybe partially just to show Derek that he can’t tell him what to do. Especially not like that.

After walking for a while and passing through a thick patch of overgrowth, Stiles is surprised to find himself in a little cove on the shore of the lake. He hadn’t realized they were this close to the water and he’s momentarily stunned by the tranquility of the mirrored water, reflecting back endless evergreen trees and sky. So transfixed that he doesn’t realize there’s someone already in the cove, sitting on the shore’s tiny dock with her feet dipping into the water below. Maxim is sprawled on the dock next to her, panting.

The girl, probably in her late teens, has very pale brown skin and close-cropped hair. She’s skinny as a chopstick and she startles badly when she sees Stiles. He almost thinks he sees her shaking. His eyes flick back and forth between her and a little boathouse fifty yards down the shore that he’s just noticed.

Stiles calls Maxim to him and approaches the dock. As he nears the girl, she speaks up. “I’m waiting for the otters,” she says in a dreamy, spaced-out tone.

“Cool,” he says, unaware there were otters here. “Otters are cool.” Who is this girl?

When Maxim gets closer, Stiles sees that he’s lost his lead at some point; it must not have been clipped on securely. “Shit,” he curses to himself. He sees the girl twitch out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t suppose you have some string or something, do you?” he asks, knowing she probably doesn’t.

She just stares at him for a while, so he repeats the question, unsure what else to do.

“There are no otters today,” she says in a near whisper.

“Okay, cool,” Stiles says. Maxim has plopped down on the ground and doesn’t look interested in moving anytime soon. Stiles doesn’t know a lot about dogs and wonders how in the hell he’s going to get him back to Derek when he notices the boathouse again. The girl has resumed staring fixedly down at the water, so he leaves Maxim where he is and walks to the little structure. There has to be string or something in there.

The building itself is in disrepair: chipped paint, boarded-up windows. He figures there’s not much use for a boathouse when you don’t have a boat, given that he’s seen no sign of one. Assuming the door will be locked, he’s surprised when it gives way after a firm push.

It’s dark and reeks of mildew inside, and Stiles’ eyes take a moment to adjust. When they do, he sees that it’s not just a boathouse, although there is a little side room filled with nothing but boating gear, but also a tiny cottage. It’s got a little round table with two chairs, a bookshelf filled with books, a kitchenette, and a bed made up with what were once very nice linens. Someone had stayed here, obviously, but not in a long time. Stiles backs out quickly after grabbing a length of rope; the place creeps him out, though he’s not sure why.

When Stiles emerges, Maxim is just where he left him, but the girl has turned to face him and is watching, like she was watching the whole time he was in there. She looks scared.

“Found some rope,” he calls to her as he heads toward Maxim.

He doesn’t expect her to say anything, so he jumps when her voice rings out somewhat shrilly. “I saw you go in there.”

He’s not sure what to say, so he just smiles and turns back to where he’s looping the rope through Maxim’s collar.

“She doesn’t go in there anymore,” she continues.

And it all comes back to Stiles; people had mentioned Jennifer’s beloved boat and how she liked to go sailing alone on the lake. And she had disappeared while doing so, hence the lack of a boat here. 

“No,” Stiles agrees heavily. 

“She’s gone in the water, isn’t she? She’s not coming back?” She sounds worried.

Stiles swallows around the lump in his suddenly dry throat. 

“No, she’s not coming back,” he replies.

“I never said anything, did I?” she asks in a wavering tone, her hands gripping the edges of the dock hard.

Stiles has no idea what she means, but by now it’s clear that she’s not neurotypical. Eager to get out of there he just nods and says, “Nope, you didn’t. Bye.” He gathers up the now-secure rope and starts climbing back up toward the path with Maxim. He’s just gotten back on to the trail when he sees Derek, his arms tightly crossed and his expression grim.

“Sorry I took so long,” Stiles tells him, “Maxim lost his leash somewhere, I had to find something else.” He yanks on the rope to illustrate his solution.

Derek doesn’t respond, just turns abruptly and starts heading back up the path, not waiting for Stiles to catch up.

“Sorry,” he says again, feeling helpless. “Maxim really just wanted to stay and hang out with that girl. Who is she?”

Derek speaks, but is still a few feet ahead of Stiles and doesn’t turn around. “That’s Meredith. She lives in the house next to our property with her parents. She’s harmless.”

He turns around now and narrows his eyes at the rope on Maxim like he’s just now noticing it. “Where did you get that?” he asks sharply.

“I found it in that little boathouse cabin place.”

“It was open?” He sounds alarmed.

“Yeah.” 

“Oh. It’s supposed to be locked,” he states tightly.

Stiles has no response, but Derek speaks again.

“Did Meredith tell you to go in there?”

Stiles wrinkles his forehead. “No? It didn’t seem like she understood anything I was saying.”

Derek shakes his head impatiently. “She seems more out of it than she is. She’s actually very intelligent. And observant. Probably in and out of that cabin all the time,” he adds bitterly.

“I don’t think so,” Stiles responds. “It was all moldy and dusty, obviously hadn’t had anyone in there in a really long time.”

Derek says nothing, just starts urging the dog to hurry up as they stalk back toward the house as it begins to rain.

“Hey!” Stiles says sharply. “It’s not his fault he can’t keep up, you’re basically running. Slow down.”

“If you had listened to me and not gone down there we would have been home by now; we’re going to get soaked.” He’s clearly pissed at Stiles, which pisses Stiles off in return.

“I wasn’t just going to leave him, Derek! Especially not by a giant body of water.”

Derek huffs with irritation before saying, “He’s grown up around here, Stiles. He knows his way around. He would have been fine and he would have been back up at the house before you knew it.”

The two continue bickering back and forth about who should have done what, their voices thin and cutting. Stiles hates the twisted-up feeling in his gut, the distance growing wider between him and Derek. He makes a comment about Derek blaming him for them getting stuck in the rain because he didn’t have a good excuse for not following them down to the lake.

“What?” Derek asks angrily. “What the hell does that mean? An excuse? Why do you think I didn’t want to go down there?”

“Ugh,” Stiles says, disgusted with the whole thing. “How should I know? I’m not a mind reader.”

His fists clenched and his eyes bright with rage, Derek says, “Fine. You’re right. I definitely did not want to go down there. I never go down there, or anywhere near that fucking cottage. And if you had my memories, you wouldn’t either. You wouldn’t even _think_ about it. So, happy now?” he sneers.

“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles says in a small voice. That punched feeling in his gut is worse and his blood feels like it’s running cold. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know.”

A voice inside his head says, _How could I know when you haven’t told me anything?_

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling hard. It looks like he’s willing himself to calm down.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Stiles says softly, as he hesitantly reaches out for Derek’s hand. He’s terrified of Derek shoving him off, but he doesn’t. He grabs back on to Stiles’ hand tightly.

“I should never have come back to Beacon Hills,” he sighs, pulling Stiles into a tight hug. He sounds so defeated, and it breaks Stiles’ heart.

*****

They walk back to the house hand in hand, not speaking. The rain is steady now, their clothes gradually soaking through. Derek doesn’t let go of Stiles when they pass through the front door, even as he unloops the rope from around Maxim’s neck and lets the dog run off wherever he pleases. Derek leads Stiles upstairs, to his rooms.

He takes them not to the living room, but his bedroom. He shuts the door behind them, finally releasing Stiles’ hands, then walks over to the couch, settling on it heavily. He still wears that desperate, defeated look and rests his head in his hands.

Stiles crawls in close beside him. “Please don’t be mad, Derek,” he pleads, nosing into the other man’s wet hair.

Derek pulls back and takes Stiles’ face into both of his hands. “I’m not mad at you, Stiles. Of course not. I’m sorry I lost it. I just…” he trails off.

Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t know how Derek would have finished that thought.

“I don’t want to upset you like that,” Stiles says. “I care about you too much.”

Derek’s still holding Stiles’ face and his hands grip him more tightly. “Do you?” he asks, looking deeply uncertain.

“Of course,” Stiles says, puzzled that Derek would even wonder. Stiles has never been one for subtlety and he hasn’t even been trying to conceal his affection for Derek.

Derek stares into his eyes like he’s looking for the answer to some complicated riddle. “Promise?” he whispers, sounding so young.

“I promise,” Stiles vows. He leans back out of Derek’s grasp just enough to pull his wet shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. Derek’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate, and he comes to life. Eagerly he yanks off his own shirt and then presses his entire body into Stiles, pushing them back onto the sofa, their mouths entwined and frantic. His tongue thrusts and slides against Stiles’ as he utters broken moans. The restraint of their prior encounters is utterly absent.

“Wait,” Stiles gasps, pulling back. “what are you doing?”

“What I've wanted to do since the second you came down my driveway,” he growls, reclaiming Stiles’ mouth as he trails his hands over the younger man’s chest, grazing and pinching at one nipple slightly, causing Stiles to cry out and arch his back with excitement.

Without stopping to think better of it, Stiles reaches down for the fly of Derek’s damp jeans, yanking it open before sliding his hand between Derek’s boxers and his warm body. Derek whimpers into their kiss and grabs Stiles’ hip as Stiles wraps his long fingers around Derek’s cock and strokes urgently. The slide of his foreskin makes it easy, and the sinuous motions of Derek fucking his fist drive him crazy. When Derek comes, he groans into Stiles’ mouth as Stiles strokes him through it.

Not even pausing to collect himself, Derek lifts up and yanks Stiles’ pants down to his knees before scooting back, lunging forward and slipping his lips around the head of Stiles’ cock. “Shit!” Stiles yells, his hips bucking upward against his control. Derek presses him down with one hand while taking more of Stiles into his mouth, expertly switching between tight suction and teasing, targeted licks. It takes no time at all before Stiles is gasping and coming into Derek’s mouth, and then Derek is kissing him again, tasting like himself.

They fall asleep like that, twisted together, pants half off. They sleep for hours.


	13. Chapter 13

Apparently word gets out in Beacon Hills that the famously heartbroken Derek Hale is dating again, and people come out of the woodwork to get a glimpse of Stiles. Of course, they come up with excuses for visiting Hale House: needed to return a borrowed book, wanted to make an in-person donation to the Foundation, happened to be driving by and realized how long it had been since they’d said hello. It’s all transparent as hell, but Derek, even though he loathes being a show pony, just grits his teeth and bears it.

Stiles dreads the arrival of these visitors when Derek isn’t home, since that never deters them. They always pretend to be surprised to meet Stiles, then insist on chatting awkwardly in the foyer, which unfortunately has seating that they’re all too glad to take advantage of. They never shy away from working into conversation just how beautiful Jennifer was, how the house was always full with her social gatherings, how she seemed to just _sparkle_.

Stiles is convinced that every single person who comes by is comparing him to Jennifer in their heads. Unfavorably. Given the reactions of Cora, Erica, and Jackson, he knows people must be absolutely shocked by him and Derek pairing up, and having strangers look him up and down with narrowed eyes is not helping his insecurities any. Especially after seeing how completely not over Jennifer Derek clearly is, based on his reaction at the lake.

Derek’s cousin Malia comes by while Derek is in Houston and she’s definitely the bluntest visitor yet. She goes to find Leo to ask him to make her some chicken fingers before she motions for Stiles to follow her into the dining room. She seems to be Stiles’ age, but radiates the confidence of a queen. She’s gorgeous, like all Hales, and utterly no-nonsense.

“So,” she says when she sits down, palms spread on the table, gaze piercing Stiles’ eyes. “You’re the boyfriend.”

Stiles has had too many looky-loos scoping him out by now to be any good at playing nice anymore. He just holds her stare and, after a moment, says “Yes? And?”

“Hmmph.” She leans back, looking mildly impressed. “Derek does like a strong personality, that’s nothing new.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles interjects, “but did you actually just ask Leo to make you chicken fingers?”

She looks at him with shiny brown eyes, blankly. “Yeah?” she asks, confused.

“Never mind,” Stiles sighs. “Yes, I’m the boyfriend, yes, I’m young, yes, I live here – does that cover it?” He’s tired and he’s still got some work waiting at his desk – he was interrupted by Malia’s arrival. Derek had previously told him she lived an hour away, so he felt like he owed her at least a brief visit.

“Okay,” she says simply. “How’s it going?”

This surprises Stiles; no one has asked him anything like this, although plenty of them were probably wondering.

“Um, it’s…I…good?”

“Is that a question?” she retorts. “Do you not know? Are you guys on the outs?”

“Dude, I just met you. No, we’re not on the outs, but would I divulge that right now if we were?”

Malia shrugs as she inspects her fingernails. “Dunno. People say all kinds of shit. So you’re into him?”

Exasperated, Stiles says, “Of course I’m into him, I’m dating him. And he’s your cousin, you know he’s an amazing guy.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her head. “But I wasn’t really sure if he’d ever be able to open up and show that to somebody else ever again.”

Oh great, here it comes, thinks Stiles. He’s so tired of Jennifer talk by now that he just nods.

“I guess the true test will be if he starts throwing parties again,” she muses.

“Parties?” Stiles has never really thought of Derek as the party type. He’s way too introverted.

“Oh yeah,” she exclaims. “Parties galore up in here back in the day. Tons of people from SF, crazy performers – they brought in this little traveling circus once, there was a flame swallower!” She claps her hands in delight at the memory. “So fun.”

Stiles tries to picture Derek engineering something like that, but fails.

“Please tell me you can at least convince him to throw the costume ball again.” She says it like she assumes it’s been a repeated topic of conversation among everyone in Hale House since the day he arrived.

Not wanting to admit he doesn’t know what the hell she’s referring to, Stiles just smiles mysteriously, sensing that she will fill the silence if given a chance. He’s right.

“So I guess it’s been...three years since the last one? I mean, for obvious reasons. But shit, that thing was always cuh-razy. And the amount of money it raises for the Foundation! They’ve gotta be eager to get that going again. Seriously, please tell him to start it back up. Everybody misses it. The last one was amazing.” Malia’s chicken fingers arrive and she descends upon them ravenously.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stiles says mildly, before thanking Malia for making the trip and excusing himself to get back to work. 

*****

Even though Stiles and Derek had made up, in a pretty spectacular fashion, after that day at the lake, Stiles still feels a rift between them that wasn’t there before. It’s not based on anything Derek does or says; indeed, Derek’s acting completely normal. Stiles just can’t get the image of Derek’s face that day, when he found Stiles on the shore, out of his head. Or his words about coming back to Beacon Hills; what did he mean?

Stiles knows he should be pleased with how their relationship is progressing. That night after their blisteringly hot sofa sex they spent the night in Derek’s bed. Just snuggling, but still – it was their first sleepover, and they’d had several more since. But where he should feel soothed by the developments, Stiles feels nervous, afraid to do or say anything to trigger Derek’s memories like he had that day. It’s all his fault, he tells himself repeatedly, because he insisted on going to the lake and it resulted in his tearing open a barely closed wound in Derek. Now Stiles is more afraid than ever of the forbidden topics of Jennifer and her death, and feels like he’s on eggshells every time he’s with Derek. If Derek notices that Stiles seems uneasy, he doesn’t say anything.

Above all, Stiles wants to forget about that whole incident at the lake: the creepy cottage, Meredith’s unsettling words, Derek’s rage. Which means, of course, that he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s not in his nature to leave mysteries unsolved, but he knows that digging deeper will probably cost him Derek. That tension between his competing desires plagues him with doubt and anxiety.

Stiles needs someone to process this externally with, but can’t think of anyone suitable for the job. Friends from back home don’t know Derek, so they won’t be able to comment knowledgeably on the man’s reactions to things. And while Erica and Jackson can be entertaining office mates, there isn’t exactly any trust built up there yet, so he’s not ready to confide in them. He’s sitting at his desk, fretting over this when his inbox pings with an email from Deaton.

Deaton!

As inscrutable as Deaton can be, he and Stiles have grown fairly close; Stiles respects the man’s utter lack of bullshit, and his intractable calm. And Deaton has known the Hales forever, Derek his whole life, basically. He also knew Jennifer and knows Beacon Hills…he’s the perfect sounding board.

Still, when Stiles appears at Deaton’s open doorway he feels unsure about the propriety of talking to his boss about _his_ boss. That’s definitely blurring some lines he probably should not be blurring, but he’s beginning to feel desperate. He doesn’t want his neuroses to ruin his relationship with Derek, especially as his feelings for the man deepen daily.

(Just that morning, he’d woken to a text from an out-of-town Derek that said: _I think you’ve ruined me for sleeping alone._)

“Hey, Deaton,” he says as he knocks weakly on the doorframe.

Deaton looks up from the computer screen he’s reading while eating a sandwich. “Stiles. How can I help you?”

Not sure how to begin, Stiles comes into the office, pulling the door closed behind him before sitting down in the chair opposite Deaton’s desk. He fumbles for a moment before blurting out, “Um, not sure where to begin.”

“Ah,” Deaton says, in a serious tone. He puts down his sandwich and wipes off his fingers with a napkin. “Okay then.”

“No, no,” Stiles laughs nervously. “Nothing bad. I just…well, a lot of people have been asking about the fundraiser costume ball you used to put on here?” He’s going to pretend that just Malia is equivalent to a lot of people; in some ways, he’s sure she is. “And I know there’s a good reason that you stopped holding it, but…how bad of an idea would it be, do you think, if we encouraged Derek to do it again?”

Deaton looks thoughtful and is quiet for a long moment. “Let’s back up a moment. You said people are asking whether or not we’re going to resume hosting the ball?”

Not exactly lying, Stiles answers, “Yes.”

Deaton rubs at his chin. “It’s not a terrible idea. It was always a very effective fundraising effort.”

“Right,” Stiles says eagerly, “so what do you think Derek would say?”

Deaton frowns. “Honestly, Stiles, I have no idea. The ball was…very much Jennifer’s event.”

Stiles feels a heavy thud deep in his stomach. He swallows. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“But,” Deaton goes on. “It was still definitely a group effort, pulling off something that huge. If you’re worried that it won’t be possible without her involved, I don’t think you need to be.”

Not exactly Stiles’ concern, but good to know.

“How would you feel about suggesting it to Derek?” Stiles asks hopefully.

Deaton smiles very faintly. “Shouldn’t you? I’ve heard you two are…well acquainted by now.”

Stiles groans with embarrassment and hangs his head in his hands. Without moving from that position he whines, “Why does everyone in this town know all my business?”

“Relax,” Deaton says with a chuckle. “That’s how small towns are. And you forget I’ve known Derek a long time. The difference in his demeanor since you arrived is…significant.”

This causes Stiles to straighten up. “Oh? How so?”

Still wearing that elusive smile, Deaton says, “He just seems happy, that’s all. I haven’t seen him that way in quite some time.”

Unable to help himself, Stiles sighs. “Not sure how happy he is at the moment.”

“Oh?” Deaton cocks an eyebrow.

“We just…had a bit of a disagreement the other day. After I went down to the lake. We were watching Maxim, you know, Cora’s dog? And I followed him after he tore off into this cove. Maxim was hanging out with this odd girl when I got down there.”

Deaton nods. “Yes, Meredith. She’s often down there. Nothing to be worried about, she’s a very nice girl, utterly harmless.”

“Oh,” Stiles rushes to say, “I know that. She didn’t concern me or anything. Just didn’t expect to see her there.” Feeling like this is a perfect opportunity to fish for some information he’d never get from Derek, he presses on. “And I checked out that cottage down there? It’s too bad, it looks like it was really nice at one point. I went in to find some rope for the dog and it was pretty gross in there – decaying and moldy.”

Deaton says nothing, but Stiles hasn’t exactly asked a question, so he goes on.

“That was Jennifer’s boathouse, right?”

Warily, Deaton answers that it was.

“I was surprised that it wasn’t just a boathouse, though, that it looked like someone had slept there on a regular basis? Did she use it a lot?”

“Yes,” Deaton says, “she did.”

Feeling reckless and unable to shut up, Stiles says, “I noticed there wasn’t a boat at the dock. Is that how she drowned? Out on her own boat?” He’s been thinking about the fact that he has zero details about how she died, beyond that she drowned.

“Yes,” Deaton says again. “It capsized and sank after getting washed out into the Sacramento River. She was thrown overboard in the process.”

“Couldn’t someone have gone in after her, or prevented the boat from getting sucked into the river?”

Deaton looks like he realizes he’s not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. Looking resigned, he says, “No one saw the accident happen. Nobody even knew she had gone out sailing that night.”

This both surprises and chills Stiles. “How could no one know she was out sailing? Wouldn’t Derek have missed her?”

Deaton shrugs. “She frequently went sailing alone at night. She said it was her ‘therapy.’ Sometimes she went out so late that she preferred to just sleep in the cabin, rather than try to find her way back to the house in the darkness.”

“Didn’t that upset Derek?” Stiles asks incredulously.

With a tight voice Deaton says, “I don’t know” after a long pause. Stiles gets the feeling he’s not saying something and is trying to protect someone, though he can’t figure out if it’s Derek, or Jennifer, or himself. It’s seriously weird.

“Damn,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “That’s terrible. When did they…find her?”

“Not for two months. About forty miles down the riverbank, she washed ashore.”

Stiles shudders, trying to keep the image of a badly decomposed body out of his mind.

“How could they know it was her?” He’s heard nasty things about dead bodies that have hung out in the water too long from his cop father.

Deaton sighs. “Derek identified the body.”

Suddenly, Stiles is disgusted with himself. For assaulting Deaton with these traumatizing questions, for being so invested in Derek’s gruesome tragedy, for lapping up the gory details so hungrily. What kind of a monster is he?

“I’m sorry,” he says ruefully. “I shouldn’t be asking about this. I’m really sorry. I swear I’m not some sick morbid asshole. I just get so frustrated, sometimes, being the only person around here who knows nothing about the past that’s so clearly always on everyone’s mind.” He rubs his face roughly.

Before Deaton can respond, Stiles continues. “Honestly, I’ve been freaking out lately. Everybody is coming by to check me out, see who Derek’s moved on with. I know they’re all comparing me to her, this legendary goddess that Derek adored so much. They’re all thinking about how different I am from her, how I’m not good enough for Derek.” Now that he’s started vomiting his feelings, he can’t stop.

“Stiles,” Deaton says with concern. “Please, stop.”

Stiles looks at him, a miserable expression on his face that he can’t seem to conceal.

“I, for one, am extremely pleased that you’re seeing Derek. I think you’re an excellent match for his personality, exactly what he needs. As I said, he seems very content with you. And I’ve not heard a single negative word about you from anyone in this town, although I’m not surprised to hear that some of them have been rather lacking in…manners.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says sincerely. “I really appreciate that. I do. I guess sometimes it’s just so hard, feeling like I’m competing with a ghost. Someone who was apparently perfect in every way.”

“You must not think that way,” Deaton insists. “It’s obvious to me that you have a myriad of excellent qualities, and Derek is quite taken with you just as you are.”

Utterly ashamed by now, and needing this conversation to end, Stiles smiles as genuinely as he can and thanks Deaton again. He gets up to go, but Deaton stops him.

“Stiles. I…I’m sure that Derek would want to know about these insecurities you’re having. He could certainly put your mind at ease.

“You won’t tell him, right?” Stiles asks, panicked.

Deaton furrows his brow. “Well, of course not. It would not be my place to do so. But I know Derek very well. I have seen him go through many things in his life. If he knew you were worrying about all of this, about the past…that would distress him greatly. None of us wants to relive the past, least of all Derek. You need to focus on the present, on the future. He needs that from you.”

“I know,” Stiles sighs. “I know. You’re right. God, I’m so embarrassed. And sorry.” He shakes his head ruefully.

“Nonsense,” Deaton says briskly. “I am always here if you have any other…concerns you would like to share.” But he looks uncomfortable as he says it, and he’s leaning toward his computer wistfully.

Stiles takes his cue and exits, feeling both better and worse than he did before.

*****

Derek returns the following evening and, as is his usual pattern these days, goes directly to Stiles’ place. Not having expected him home until the next day, Stiles practically jumps off the sofa when he hears a knock on the door. For a second, he’s worried Harris wants to talk to him about something. He’s been doing an excellent job of going nowhere near Harris lately, and he wants to keep up that lucky streak.

But it’s Derek when he opens the door, Derek wearing a tired, but happy, grin. Before he says anything to Stiles he takes his face in his hands and kisses him slowly and deeply. Stiles murmurs happily into his mouth and then sags into his body for a hug.

Once they’re inside, Stiles goes to get Derek a beer, since he’s having one while watching a high-stakes Mets game. When Derek tries to talk to him, Stiles makes a “shhh” sound, gesturing at the screen, and Derek laughs heartily, saying, “Ok, fine, fine.” 

After the game, Stiles turns the TV off and angles his body to face Derek’s, his feet in Derek’s lap. Derek wraps his hands around them and squeezes.

“How was the trip?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “This one was just fundraising stuff. So neither depressing nor fulfilling. Just work.”

“Lotta white guys in suits?”

“You know it,” Derek grins. “Wait – except – wasn’t I one of them?”

“Eh,” Stiles says, lifting one shoulder, “you’re special.” Derek rolls his eyes and squeezes Stiles’ feet a little harder.

“How were things around here while I was gone?” Derek asks.

“Nothing too exciting. More visitors, wanting to check me out. Oh! Including Malia. Who ordered _chicken fingers_ the second she was over the threshold.”

Derek nods. “That sounds about right.”

“Anyway, she and all the others seemed very curious about how someone like me ended up with someone like you.” Stiles’ insides tighten as he ventures into this topic of conversation he’s been avoiding.

Derek raises an eyebrow and pauses his foot-squeezing. “How so?”

“Hmmm, I dunno, maybe they have _seen_ the two of us?” Stiles responds sarcastically.

“Stiles,” Derek frowns. “Shut up.”

“Okay, Mr. Universe, whatever you say.”

Derek responds by yanking a throw pillow out from behind his back and then whacking Stiles on the head with it. Stiles cries out, laughing, and tackles Derek, until they’re entangled. Stiles brushes a stray piece of hair off Derek’s forehead. “They just make me feel like a monkey in a zoo or something.”

“I don’t know why you care,” Derek says after kissing Stiles’ forehead. “They’re just a bunch of bored busybodies. Malia especially. And please stop insulting yourself around me. I happen to think the guy you’re ragging on is brilliant, and funny, and hot as hell.” He squeezes Stiles’ butt to make his point.

“Ugh,” Stiles mutters. “Stop being so cute. Go make me a frozen pizza.”

“Do you still have no vegetables in your kitchen?” Derek demands. “What am I supposed to eat when I’m here?”

“Uhhh…stupid question. Pizza, like a person who isn’t a monster.”

He gives Derek his best puppy eyes until Derek sighs dramatically and says, “Fine, but you better have pepperoni, or I’m leaving.” 

They eventually get to the pizza, but there’s a bunch of kissing that has to take place first.


	14. Chapter 14

The reality of dating Derek means having a boyfriend who’s out of town half the time. Stiles thinks he understood this cognitively when they got together, but the lived reality is unpleasant. As he wakes up on yet another weekend day with Derek hundreds of miles away, he wonders what to do with himself.

The problem, of course, is that he has such a good time hanging out with Derek that being in the house without him is kind of depressing. Which frustrates his sense of independence, since he’s not accustomed to relying on someone else to entertain him. He’s been in relationships before, but none where he felt like he just couldn’t get enough of the other person. Until Derek. It’s both wonderful and terrible.

Derek tends to start their weekend mornings really early, because he’s that kind of person (ugh), so Stiles relishes the chance to lie around in bed for a while. He has to focus on the bright sides of being on his own today: he can be super lazy, he can gorge on junk food without getting those judgmental eyebrows in response, and he can…

Stiles sits bolt upright. 

He can go explore that cove at the lake shore.

It’s been eating away at his imagination, fleeting memories of that creepy little cabin, now that he knows what it was really for. He’s been itching to check it out more fully, but obviously can’t do that with either Derek’s company or knowledge. Even knowing that he will totally feel guilty if he gives in to this curiosity, he knows that he’s going to.

Stiles gets ready quickly; brushes his teeth, scarfs down a bowl of cereal, and tosses on the clothes he pulled off last night when he went to bed. If anybody notices he’s recycling his hoodie, that’s on them for caring.

It takes a good fifteen minutes to get back to the cove; he understands now a little better why Jennifer wouldn’t have wanted to make that walk in the dead of night, especially if the weather were bad.

The boathouse itself is just as he remembered it, an assuming structure showing signs of neglect, the door slightly jammed but not inoperable. He’s almost surprised that Derek didn’t send someone down here to chain the place up, but then he realizes with a guilty surge in his stomach that Derek probably doesn’t expect Stiles to go poking around. He obviously doesn’t know Stiles well enough yet.

The inside of the cabin is still musty and damp, with that sharp edge of mold. He takes in the interior more carefully this time: the high-end ceramic mugs on the kitchenette counter, the artsy light fixtures with dead bulbs, the hand-knotted wool rug on the wooden floor that’s sprouting moth holes. The bed is awfully big for the small space and looks like it belongs in a fancy hotel; it’s got a thick duvet and an abundance of pillows. Stiles wonders for a moment if the sheets have been changed since Jennifer last slept here, then feels a chill when he realizes how unlikely that is. This place is like a mausoleum.

He’s leaning in to inspect the titles on the bookshelf when he hears a thump from the attached room, where the boating supplies are stored. Stiles freezes, terrified that he’s been caught in his morbid spying. For a split second he imagines Derek will burst into the room, raging at him for his gross disrespect, but his rational brain takes over. Derek is not even in Beacon Hills. It’s probably a raccoon.

Telling himself that he’s just going to liberate some small trapped mammal, Stiles opens the door into the other area, right into the wide-eyed, horrified stare of Meredith. She’s crouching on the floor by an old-looking outboard motor. She tries to fold in further on herself at the sight of Stiles, making strange humming sounds and averting her eyes.

“Hey,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing in here?”

He’s not sure what answer he expects, given that he himself has no good reason to be there. At least she’s not digging through her boyfriend’s most private and haunting memories.

She scuttles backward, trying to put as much distance between herself and Stiles as possible. She looks at him again, her terror undiminished.

“You won’t put me in Eichen House, will you?” she asks desperately, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.

Eichen House, Stiles has learned since moving to town, was a so-called “insane asylum,” apparently something straight out of a gothic horror story. The building itself still stands, a few miles away in a dense patch of woods, though it’s long since abandoned. There hasn’t been a patient there in decades, though teenagers sometimes dare each other to spend the night there. When it was in operation, Stiles has been told, it was a pretty horrific place.

“You probably shouldn’t be in here,” Stiles tells her gently, not sure how to answer her question or what she meant by it.

“I’m not doing anything wrong!” she blurts, swaying slightly.

“I know,” he says, “but I shouldn’t be here, either. Mr. Hale doesn’t want anybody in here, I don’t think.” He steps back and motions for her to follow him out. She doesn’t move.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she insists again. “I never said anything to anyone. I don’t want to go to Eichen House.” She starts to cry and buries her face in her hands.

Stiles has no idea how to handle this situation and thinks it serves him right for poking around where he doesn’t belong.

“No one is sending you anywhere,” he tells her, crouching down beside her. “Everything is fine.”

She looks up at him and searches his face with her large, frightened eyes. After a while she says, very quietly, “You’re not like the other one.”

“Who? What other one?”

Meredith shakes her head and Stiles doesn’t think she’s going to say anything further when she starts whispering.

“She was tall, and so pretty. But she gave you the feeling of something evil, like a demon. She would come at night. I saw her. I peeked in the window once when she was here and she got angry. So angry. She said if she caught me looking at her again she’d put me in Eichen House. I told her I wouldn’t say anything. She’s gone now, isn’t she?” she asked anxiously.

Utterly confused, Stiles just responds, “No one is putting you anywhere, Meredith, don’t worry.” He helped her stand up and led her out of the cabin, back on to the shore. She ran off immediately without saying another word, and Stiles watched her disappear while trying to collect his thoughts.

Obviously she’s a little out of it. If she has been talking about Jennifer, she was obviously making something up, since by all reports Jennifer was an angel. And there’s no way anyone would threaten Meredith with an asylum that everyone knows has been closed since the 1980s. It wouldn’t even make sense. She’s clearly out of touch with reality and has some delusions, and he just feels bad that they seem to upset her so much.

He wishes he could discuss with this Derek, but of course he can’t. Yet another way the universe is punishing him for being so thoughtless and nosy. He trudges back up to the path leading back to the house, regretting coming here and feeling certain he won’t be back.

*****

When Stiles comes within sight of the parking lot by the front of Hale House, his eye catches the sun glinting off a silver Maserati GranTurino and he cringes at the thought of subjecting such a vehicle to the gravel roads here. Whoever’s driving it is rich enough to not care. He wonders, absently, who might be visiting, before realizing with horror that it’s probably another “friend of the family” come to check him out. Hoping to avoid such a fate, he heads around to the garden in the back of the house. Maybe can just wander around here and enjoy the fresh air long enough for whomever it is to get bored and go away.

As he’s strolling through the last-of-the-season dahlias, movement in the windows of Jennifer’s rooms, which are just above, catches his eye. He looks up to see Harris and some other person, apparently arguing. As his mind processes this, Harris turns and sees him. With a glare, Harris yanks the curtain shut, obscuring Stiles’ view.

Stiles doesn’t much care; he’s not that interested in Harris’s private life. Obviously whoever this person is, they’re visiting Harris, and not there to examine Stiles like a specimen. So that’s good. But it does make him wonder: what were they doing in Jennifer’s rooms? Does Harris hang out there? How does Derek feel about that, or does he even know?

Stiles tells himself that it’s none of his business and he’s not going to figure it out, anyway. Since he’s no longer afraid of running into the visitor, he goes back to the front of the house. He left his phone in the foyer, accidentally, before going out, so he’s going to pick it up and then go back to his place.

Just as he’s slipping the phone into his back pocket and turning to go back out the door, Stiles hears Harris’s prim voice carry from the upstairs hallway.

“He’s probably back in his rooms now, if you leave quickly he won’t see you. Let me just make sure he’s not downstairs for some reason.”

Obviously he’s referring to Stiles, which makes his skin crawl in some unidentifiable way. This whole day just feels so furtive and wrong. He can’t wait to get back to his sofa, where he plans to bond deeply with some Doritos and a backlog of Bachelor in Paradise episodes.

But before he can get to the door, another voice calls out from the top of the stairs.

“Well, here he is!”

With a sigh, Stiles turns. Harris is standing next to a handsome man in his late forties with artfully coifed hair, playfully smiling blue eyes, and a strong jawline. He gives off the aura of someone who is very taken with himself every time he looks in the mirror.

Harris is shooting death glares at the man, who ignores him completely. The other man swaggers down the grand staircase and Harris follows him resentfully. Now Harris is glaring at Stiles, as if he’s to blame for all of this.

“So you’re Stiles,” the cocky man says, tilting his head and looking Stiles up and down in a frankly lascivious manner that makes Stiles want to cover himself with his hands. Which he knows is ridiculous since he’s not even showing any other skin besides his hands and face, but still.

“That’s me,” he offers tiredly. This isn’t going to be a fun exchange, he just knows it.

“I’m Peter,” says the man as he grins and extends his well-manicured hand. A Rolex studded with diamonds pops out from his shirt sleeve. “Just here to visit my old buddy Harris. Nice to meet you.”

Stiles shakes his hand weakly and nods. “Nice to meet you.”

Peter gives him a smug look. “And how’s our old boy Der these days?” He obviously knows all about Stiles’ relationship with Derek. And probably Derek himself, given the use of the nickname. Which completely rubs Stiles the wrong way, though he can’t say why.

“He’s great,” Stiles says, looking Peter directly in the eye. He can tell Peter is like those wild animals that only back down when challenged. “He’s in Philadelphia for work.”

Peter tsks. “And he left you all alone? Isn’t he afraid that somebody else is going to come and sweep you off your feet when he’s constantly gallivanting around the country?” He says it with a suggestive smirk before looking Stiles up and down again.

To keep up his bravado, Stiles lifts his chin and asks Peter if he and Harris want to join him in the dining room for a cup of coffee. Although he can imagine nothing he’d enjoy less.

Peter laughs delightedly at the invitation, though Harris immediately barks, “No, no, thank you Mr. Stilinski, but Peter was just leaving.” Peter doesn’t seem surprised by this, nor by Harris grabbing his elbow and dragging him to the front door.

Peter sighs dramatically as he pulls out of Harris’s grasp and comes to a stop by the door. “I suppose you’re right, Adrian, I do need to head back to the city. It was lovely meeting you, Stiles.”

“Same to you,” Stiles says flatly, not caring how insincere he sounds.

“I hope to see you again. But – be a dear and maybe don’t mention my visit to dear Derek? He doesn’t like me much and I don’t want to get poor Harris here in trouble.” He flashes another saccharine grin.

“That’s fine, none of my business anyway,” Stiles nods, though he absolutely intends to tell Derek about this and find out who the hell this sleaze ball is.

With a jaunty wave, Peter slips out the front door, Harris close behind him. Stiles stands alone in the foyer, trying to make sense of what just happened. He’s just having a morning of mysteries, it would seem.

Why would someone like Peter be friends with someone like Harris, especially since the latter man didn’t seem to like him much at all? Why did Peter come here today, obviously knowing he would be unseen by Derek? He had to have had some motivation. He and Harris are clearly up to something together. Suddenly Stiles thinks of all the incredibly valuable (and portable) artifacts in Jennifer’s rooms and thinks he’s figured it out. Harris must be helping Peter smuggle items out of the house, for a portion of the proceeds. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Even though he knows he wouldn’t know what to look for, Stiles can’t resist running up the stairs to Jennifer’s rooms. Maybe there will be some evidence of something untoward? He feels strangely excited at the prospect. To be honest, he wouldn’t mind finding a reason for Harris to need to leave Hale House and never return; that guy unsettles him more every time he sees him.

Stiles goes first to the room he’d seen the men in, the main living room. He’s trying to remember which artifacts he’d noticed when he was in here last when he hears a step behind him. His heart leaping into his throat, Stiles turns to find Harris smiling at him for the doorway.

“Everything all right, Mr. Stilinski?” Harris asks, in a sly and knowing tone of voice. Like he expected to find Stiles here and he’s more than okay with it.

Now totally unnerved, Stiles takes a shaky step back. He needs to think of an excuse for being up here, and fast.

“I was just…I wanted to come up and make sure the curtains were shut, to protect all the stuff in here, because it’s so bright out today.” He has to force himself not to wince at his own pathetic excuse.

“We both knows that’s not true, Stiles,” Harris says as he draws closer. “You saw me shut the curtain on the big window yourself.” When he’s just inches from Stiles he stops. “You just wanted to come see these rooms again.”

Grasping for a response, Stiles stammers, but Harris goes on talking.

“I know you’ve been curious. You want to know more about her, that’s understandable. All you had to do was ask me, you know.” He seems giddy, almost deranged, and Stiles is frankly afraid of him right now. He wants to run away but feels spellbound.

“In this room,” Harris makes a sweeping gesture, “are many of the gifts Mr. Hale gave her. He was always giving her gifts, you know. Really incredible things. Like that de Kooning painting over there,” he points, “all because he was her favorite artist. I can’t remember how much he paid for that, but it was a staggering amount, that I remember.”

Stiles swallows, needing this to end. 

“And this antique sofa, they got it together in Paris. They went on such lovely trips together. He traveled much less for work then. I suppose he had more to stick around for. He loved her so much, you know.” Harris stares at Stiles, that ghastly grin stuck on his face.

“I should take you to the room where she kept her clothes. Incredible stuff, she went to Fashion Week in New York with Mr. Hale every fall. Of course she would wear anything and look incredible. She’d get mistaken for one of the models herself, every year! Mr. Hale was so proud to show her off. Do you want to see her clothes?” Harris asks, eagerly.

“Um, no, actually I-“ Stiles needs to just run out of here. This is getting so fucking macabre.

“I remember what she was wearing the day she died. Beautiful Chloe ensemble. But of course everything was torn off of her by the river. Nothing on her when they found her body, all that time later.” Harris took hold of Stiles forearm and gripped tightly. “Her beautiful body, destroyed. Unrecognizable. Both arms missing, apparently. Derek was the one to have to see all that. He went up there by himself, no one could convince him otherwise. Not even Deaton.”

Harris’s grip is painful and Stiles tries to yank his arm away, but Harris just squeezes harder.

“I’ll always blame myself,” he goes on in a whisper, “for her death. I wasn’t here when she went out, I would have told her not to go out that night. The weather was bad. She would have listened to me. But I wasn’t here to stop her, so she went, and now she’s dead.” He finally releases Stiles arm.

“So now you understand why Mr. Hale doesn’t want anyone using these rooms,” Harris finishes seriously. “These will always be her rooms, and he wants to preserve that. He was utterly destroyed by her death, you know. So I keep these rooms up to keep her memory alive. I believe it helps those of us who loved her. But you may come here anytime, you need only ask me and I will show you everything.” That manic glint is back in his eyes.

“That’s okay,” Stiles breathes as he backs toward the door. “I’m good.” He’s never coming back up here again if he can help it.

“Sometimes I think I still hear her around here,” Harris says, almost to himself. He smiles sadly. “Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?” His gaze is back on Stiles, fixed.

“I don’t know,” Stiles responds, at a loss to think of anything else. His entire mind is just chaos right now.

“Do you think she watches you and Mr. Hale?”

Stiles isn’t even going to try and answer that. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He rushes out of the room and down to the stairwell at the end of the corridor that he now knows will lead to his apartment. He can’t get far enough away.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the third scene of this chapter features an elderly person with dementia. If you want to skip it, I've summarized that scene in the end notes.

Stiles awakens to the sound of pounding on his door, and for a heart-stopping moment he thinks it’s Derek, come to tear him a new one for his invasive behavior the day before. But then he remembers the sweet good-night texts he’d gotten from Derek last night, telling him he would be back this afternoon. Although Stiles misses the guy, he’s not upset about having some time alone this morning to process everything he saw and heard yesterday.

But someone wants his attention, right now, and he’s on edge enough to be a little freaked out. “Coming,” he yells as he yanks on some sweatpants and runs his fingers through his hair to flatten it a bit. He knows he looks like a Troll doll in the mornings.

The pounding doesn’t even slow down, and when he opens the door Cora nearly falls in.

“Finally, you asshole!” she gasps as she rights herself. “Do you normally sleep all day?”

Stiles rubs his eyes. “All day? What time is it?” 

“It’s _nine_,” she says, scandalized. “Is this what my brother’s absence reduces you to?” She scoffs in disapproval.

Stiles rolls his eyes and motions for Cora to come in. Then it occurs to him to wonder what she’s doing there.

“So you know Derek’s not here, but you’re here, anyway?” he asks, confused.

She flops backward onto his couch and turns on his TV. “Yup,” she says, looking at the screen. “Do you have HBO?”

“Um, Cora?”

She sighs and puts the remote down. “I have to go visit my grandma today. She’s been guilting me so hard I can’t put it off anymore. And Isaac is playing paintball with his buddies today, and I obviously can’t take Derek, so it’s your lucky day!” She makes a fake-excited face, followed by a hopeful wince.

“Oh,” Stiles shrugs, “that’s fine. Old people love me. Can I take a shower, first?”

Cora seems stunned by his acquiescence. She just nods, open-mouthed, and he walks to the bathroom. He’s actually quite honored to have been invited to visit the Hale matriarch, and some quality time with Cora will be good. He didn’t have any plans for today, anyway.

As he’s closing the bathroom door he hears, “Don’t jerk off while I’m out here, I’ll know!” and groans. Maybe he’ll do it just to spite her.

*****

The road to Theodora Hale’s house is treacherously narrow, but Cora veers around the curves wildly, blithely chattering on while Stiles tries not to have a panic attack. She’s obviously unfazed by the danger, even having lost her own family in a car accident on these very roads, but Stiles is fairly terrified. He tries to keep up their conversation to distract himself. 

“How’s Isaac?” he asks politely as he squeezes his eyes shut when a truck passes.

“Good,” she says as she fiddles with the volume dial for the music. “We’ve been together so long we’re basically a foregone conclusion at this point. If something were going to break us up, it would have happened by now.”

“Romantic,” Stiles murmurs. She punches him in the shoulder without turning her head.

“What about you, lover boy? How’s it going with my big brother?”

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up and scrunches down a bit in his seat, like he can sneak away from Cora. “It’s really good, actually,” he answers. “He’s kind of amazing.”

Cora gags exaggeratedly and holds up one hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. My brother is an asexual eunuch in my mind and he’s going to stay that way.”

Stiles grins. “Trust me, he really isn’t. Like _really_ isn’t.”

“OH MY GOD,” Cora screams, “I hate you! Gross!”

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever. You asked.”

“Do you think you’ll stay in Beacon Hills, like, for good then?”

It’s a topic Stiles has mostly avoided in his own mind. The only reason he would stay would be for Derek, so both his future relationship status and future location status are big unknowns right now. Beacon Hills, pretty as it is, isn’t where he’d choose to live. He still wonders occasionally why Derek himself doesn’t leave.

“Why do you stay here?” Stiles asks her instead of answering her question. If she notices him dodging her she doesn’t let on. She just thinks for a moment and says, “This is where the Hales live. This is where they’ve always lived. There are so few of us left, I guess…” she trails off, but Stiles gets the drift.

“Yeah,” he says. They’re both quiet as she zips around a series of curves.

It occurs to Stiles that Cora might be able to clear something up for him.

“Hey – do you know a guy named Peter? Older, super flashy? Friends with Harris?”

Cora barks out a harsh laugh. “Ha! Yeah, I do. That’s my uncle.”

Stiles tries to register what she’s saying as they turn up a long driveway that winds away into the woods.

“Wait, like, your relative?”

She looks at him oddly. “That is what uncle means, yes.”

He sneers at her. “Yeah, yeah. But he seemed like he was there to visit Harris, and he asked me not to tell Derek…seems kind of strange for a family member.”

“Our family is strange, Stiles. Besides, we don’t know Peter well. He’s our mom’s baby brother and he was back east going to school and starting his career when we were growing up. He and my mom weren’t close or anything, so he never visited back then. He moved back just a few months before the accident. Truly shitty timing.” She shakes her head.

“Why wouldn’t he want Derek to know he came by?” Stiles is extremely confused.

“I dunno,” she shrugs. “I seem to remember Derek saying Peter’s a creep. I didn’t get any details. Honestly I just didn’t care? Okay, we’re here!”

Cora parks the car in front of a sprawling log-cabin style house, obviously expensive modern construction meant to look old-fashioned and rustic. She unbuckles her seat belt and then gives Stiles, who is staring off into the distance, a pointed look. “Well?” she asks.

“Sorry,” he says with a nervous smile. “Lead the way.”

“Just remember,” Cora warns. “She’s dotty as hell. She probably doesn’t even know her own name anymore.”

*****

Grandma Hale is indeed in the late stages of dementia. She has absolutely no idea who Cora is, and is wildly uninterested in learning Stiles’ identity. She sits wrapped in wool blankets by the fire, even though it’s warm outside and in the house.

The woman is old but not ancient, probably in her mid-eighties. She’s got snow-white hair, which Stiles has always thought looks super cool and which he hopes he will have someday, and it’s swept up neatly into a chignon. Her face, while heavily lined, is still beautiful – those Hale bone structure genes are no joke. When Cora introduces Stiles, she fixes her ice-blue eyes on him and says nothing. Her aide, a squat younger woman in colorful scrubs, nudges her and encourages her to be friendly.

“It’s okay, Josie,” Cora says to the aide, shaking her head. “Let her be. We just wanted to visit.” She sits down on the velvet sofa across from Theodora’s chair by the fire. She nods at Stiles to join her, and he does.

Josie apologizes to the two of them and says Theodora is having a tough day. Theodora just stares into the fire. 

“Grandma,” Cora says a little too loudly. “It’s me, your youngest granddaughter. I was here a few weeks ago, remember? We played cribbage!” Cora makes a hand gesture that Stiles assumes refers to cribbage, a game he knows nothing about.

Theodora blinks, then sits up a bit straighter. “Cora…” she says, suspiciously. Like she doesn’t know who that is, or doesn’t know if this person is actually her.

Nonplussed, Cora wraps an arm around Stiles. “And this is Stiles, again. He’s Derek’s new boyfriend. He works for the Foundation.”

Theodora reacts to that; her brows draw in sharply and she frowns. “That’s nonsense. Derek is married. To a woman!” She shudders, apparently at the very thought of what Cora has suggested. She gazes back into the fire, the reflection of the flames glittering off the surface of her light eyes.

Cora tries to restart the conversation, asking Theodora if she’s read any good books lately. Rather than answer, Theodora glares at Cora and demands, “If you’re Cora, why is Derek not here with you?”

Stiles is amazed at how smoothly Cora handles her grandmother’s abrupt conversational style. She’s obviously very accustomed to it, and Stiles remembers that this woman more or less raised Cora. Which explains a lot, actually.

“Derek is out of town, Grandma, for the Foundation.”

The old woman scoffs. “Always running around helping strangers when he should be here at home. He should be paying attention to that lovely wife of his! A woman needs attention, you know,” Theodora says directly to Stiles. He smiles and nods, unsure how to respond.

“Grandma,” Cora insists, “Jennifer died, you know that. You haven’t seen her in a very long time.” Even Cora is starting to look a little uncomfortable.

“That’s rubbish!” Theodora cries. “Get this strange…boy…out of here and come back to me with Jennifer. She hasn’t visited me in too long, I want to see her. Right now!” The woman is speaking so animatedly that she shakes, spittle collecting at the corners of her mouth.

“Now, now,” Josie says in a soothing tone, appearing out of nowhere. “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Hale. Deep breaths, sweetheart. Maybe it’s time for a cup of tea?”

Her arm wrapped around Theodora snugly, Josie looks up at Cora and Stiles. “You should probably go,” she says very quietly as she strokes Theodora’s shoulder. “Come back in a few days?”

Cora sighs, but more out of irritation than disappointment, it seems. “I know the drill,” she mutters as she collects her bag from the floor and grabs Stiles’ arm to yank him up. “Bye, Grandma.”

Theodora doesn’t respond, back to gazing blankly into the fire. As Stiles and Cora slip out the front door, he hears her pleading with Josie again: “Why does Jennifer never come to see me anymore?”

*****

Back on the road, rain now splashing steadily onto the windshield, neither Cora nor Stiles say anything for a bit. Eventually Cora speaks, and her tone is apologetic. “I had no idea that would happen. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have subjected you to that, I swear.” She grips the steering wheel tightly and doesn’t look at Stiles.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Stiles says, even though he is feeling pretty shaken.

Cora shakes her head. “She’s not usually that out of it. I mean, the last time I saw her I told her all about you and she said she was pleased Derek was moving on! This was totally unexpected. Ugh.”

“Please, it’s fine. She didn’t mean any harm, it’s not a big deal.”

“I’d forgotten how much she loved Jennifer. She was pretty gone already by the time of the accident and I don’t know if it ever really became real for her. In lucid moments, sure, but those are few and far between.” She heaves another deep sigh and Stiles wonders if it’s for him, or for the cognitive decline of the person Cora spent most of her childhood with.

Before Stiles can reassure her again, Cora goes on. “Jennifer really doted on her, always had her over at Hale House and put on these elaborate teas for her. Jennifer had a real gift for making people adore her: kids, men, old ladies. She could charm absolutely anyone.”

Stiles just looks out the window, watches the trees flash past. The rain is coming to a stop and the sun is creeping back out. It really is beautiful here, he thinks, desperate to focus on something pleasant.

Before long they pull up into the driveway at Hale House. “I promised Isaac I’d be home for a late lunch, do you mind if I just drop you off and don’t come in?” 

Stiles wonders if she’s really promised to be home, or just feeling awkward. Either way, he’s feeling awkward enough himself to be grateful for the lack of company. He needs a nap, maybe a run.

But his plans change when they break into the clearing where the house sits and Derek’s car is there. He’s back a little earlier than expected, which both disappoints and thrills Stiles, given his current state of mind. But he decides to focus on thrilled as he hugs Cora and hops out of her car and up to the front door. Some time with Derek is probably the best medicine for the insecurity the old woman just woke up inside him.

His thoughts on getting his arms around Derek as soon as humanly possible, Stiles walks into the house feeling better already. There’s no sign of Derek immediately, so he’s just about to call out for him when he hears the man’s voice from one of the drawing rooms off the foyer.

“I don’t care how you do it, but you need to tell him right now that he’s not welcome here, you understand? I don’t want him setting foot in this place ever again. And it doesn’t matter how I found out, that’s not your business. Your business is running this estate, not letting people like him come over when I’m away. I mean it, Harris. If this happens again, you’re gone.”

Not wanting to get anywhere near this discussion, clearly about Peter’s visit, Stiles steps carefully into the Foundation offices, off to the side so that he can still see a bit into the foyer but no one knows he’s there. A moment later Harris emerges from the drawing room into the foyer, a look of pure hatred and rage on his face as he hurries up the stairs. When Stiles feels confident that Harris is totally out of sight and not coming back, he heads over to find Derek.

Derek has his back to the entrance as he stands in front of a window, staring out at the front driveway. His body is a tense, rigid line. 

Stiles greets him by walking up behind and snaking his arms around Derek, who first jerks in alarm and then relaxes with a smile when he realizes who it is. Firmly held in place in Stiles’ arms, he tilts his head back enough to brush their lips together. His brow is still furrowed and he’s definitely feeling off, Stiles thinks.

“Hi,” Derek says as he turns back to the outside view. “You weren’t here when I got home, I went to your place.” 

Stiles nuzzles into Derek’s neck and takes a comforting whiff of the man’s scent. “I went to go visit your grandma with Cora.”

“Really?” Derek sounds both surprised and pleased. “How’s she doing? I owe her a visit.”

Stiles decides now isn’t the time to go into the visit’s particulars, if there ever is a time for it. So instead of responding, he says, “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

“Hmmmm,” Derek murmurs in response, in a way that somehow conveys he appreciates and returns the sentiment.

It’s odd that Derek isn’t telling him about what just went on with Harris, and he wonders who told him about Peter’s visit – Stiles was waiting to tell him in person.

“Is everything okay?” Stiles asks after placing a small kiss on the side of Derek’s neck. “You seem very tense.”

Derek laughs, but it’s tight and uncomfortable. “I just hate losing most of a weekend to travel. It was a hard trip, and today feels like it’s been a million years long already.”

That old familiar knot tightening in his gut, Stiles nods. “I know exactly what you mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third scene: Derek and Cora meet with Grandma Hale, who can't really remember Cora and insists that Jennifer is still alive, and that she wants to see her.


	16. Chapter 16

When Stiles first arrived at Hale House, Derek had told him that Harris was involved in the Foundation, but their paths hadn’t crossed there yet (thankfully). A couple of days after Derek’s dressing down of Harris, though, Stiles enters the breakroom to find Harris there, tinkering with the coffee maker.

“Oh, uh, hey,” Stiles stammers in surprise.

Harris spins around, but instead of fixing Stiles with the steely glare he’s come to expect, he has a friendly, open look on his face. It’s actually more unnerving than the glare.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Harris says pleasantly. “We got a new coffee maker and I don’t know how to use it, it seems – would you mind showing me?”

Stiles is too stunned to really respond, so he just drifts over to the counter and shows Harris which buttons to push. Why is Harris being...nice? Is he trying to get on Stiles’ good side after the whole Peter thing, get Stiles to make Derek go easy on him? As Stiles is going through the motions with the coffee maker, brain spinning, he almost doesn’t hear Derek, Deaton, and Erica spill into the room.

“No, but seriously,” Erica is pleading, “we NEED to do the ball again. I’ve been hoarding the perfect costume idea for YEARS now and if I wait much longer it’s going to be culturally obsolete.” She looks beseechingly at Derek, then Deaton. The latter man just gives her one of his classic beatific smiles.

Derek, however, heaves a loud sigh and looks up at the ceiling. Erica just keeps staring at him, eyes wide. She turns to Stiles, realizing that he might be instrumental to her campaign.

“Stiles. You will LOVE this ball. It is the most fun a person can have in Beacon Hills. Which I realize is not saying a lot, but then again you do get to make out with Derek in Beacon Hills, so….”

Derek smacks her arm and Harris clears his throat violently.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Prudes. Anyway, seriously, tell your boyfriend we need to have this ball.”

“Erica, I never said no!” Derek looks deeply harassed, and Stiles figures the conversation has been going for a while.

“But you haven’t said yes,” she whines.

Derek sighs again. He looks at Deaton and says, “It’s really up to Deaton. And Harris,” he adds, turning to the man. “They’re the ones who end up shouldering the burden, so it’s up to them. But if they’re game, I’m fine with it.” He doesn’t look excited, exactly, but not upset, either.

Deaton seems to ponder it for a moment, then nods and says, “That's fine with me. We could use the fundraising.” He looks to Harris, and the others turn toward him as well.

“Mr. Hale, Mr. Deaton, I am happy to do whatever I can. I believe I remember the details from the last ball well enough; I can probably use the same vendors. And the invite list will only need slight modification.” He acts entirely unmoved by this whole idea. Stiles wonders if this is how he reacts, period. Like, if Erica had suggested an orgy, would Harris calmly ask which lube to buy in bulk? 

“Like I said,” Derek says to the group, “I’m fine with it. Let me know how I can help.” 

“Ooh,” Stiles says excitedly, “what are you going to dress up as? I bet you’d make a killer Superman!”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, “no, I do not dress up. Ever. Host’s prerogative.”

Stiles pouts.

“What are you gonna be?” Erica asks Stiles, “Little Red Riding Hood?” She grins devilishly.

“Hardly,” Stiles tells her. “I’m going to be something so amazing, so clever – it will be the surprise of your lives.” He pours himself a cup of coffee and plays it cool as his mind starts to race. He’s terrible at coming up with costumes and he’s just oversold himself, by a lot.

“Looking forward to it,” says Deaton, with a look on his face like he knows exactly how fucked Stiles is. How he conveys complex emotions without really moving any facial muscles is truly amazing.

“Me too,” says Derek with a warm smile that makes Stiles want to throw him down on the breakroom floor. Instead he just returns the smile and sips his coffee.

Erica says, “Whatever,” and then leads Derek and Deaton back out of the kitchen, saying she needs to show them a contract that just came in from an institutional donor. They follow her, Derek waving at Stiles and winking on his way out. Stiles sighs happily.

Harris clears his throat again and Stiles jumps, lost in his little Derek fog. He smiles at Harris nervously. Harris starts to speak, stops, then starts again. “Mr. Stilinski, I…I wanted to apologize for my…manner with you since your arrival.” He utters the words stiffly, without really looking at Stiles.

“Um,” Stiles responds, at a loss.

Harris goes on. “I am somewhat resistant to change, you could say, and transitions can be…difficult. I hope you will forgive me for being a bit…less than hospitable.” He looks up at Stiles, his expression unreadable.

Honestly, Stiles would love to clear the air with Harris. Even though he’s not very enamored of the guy and will always think he’s creepy as fuck, it sucks to be locked in some weird antagonistic relationship with him, given that their paths are going to cross a lot for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t see them becoming friends, of course, but civil neutrality would be lovely.

“Hey man, don’t worry about it. I get it. We’re good.” He smiles and thrusts out his hand for a shake. Harris stares at his hand warily before shaking it limply.

“Good, good,” Harris says under his breath, before scurrying out of the breakroom. It’s a weird exit to a weird conversation with a really weird guy.

“Welcome to Beacon Hills,” Stiles sighs to himself, leaning back against the counter. At some point things will stop getting progressively stranger, right?

*****

Preparations for the ball begin in earnest right away. Derek, true to his word, takes a totally hands-off approach while Deaton and Harris organize the mundane details and Erica handles the PR buzz and fusses over the more entertaining aspects of the event.

“Theme ideas,” she shouts at Stiles one morning as he’s trying to proofread a subpoena. “Give them to me.”

Stiles throws the stress ball on his desk at her head. “Annoying women in history?”

“As if you could pull off drag,” she scoffs.

“I have, and I could,” Stiles tells her very seriously. 

She nods. “Actually, yeah, You’ve got the right build, good eyes for it. Gotta minimize those shoulders, though…” She tracks her eyes all over his body thoughtfully.

“Erica!” he scolds her. “Stop assessing me. I swear you have x-ray vision.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “If only.”

“Oh god, you’d just follow Derek around, wouldn’t you?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but Stiles puts up a hand. “Forget I said that. Let’s move on. Themes? How specific do you want to be?”

“Hmmmmm,” she leans back in her chair, spinning slightly while she chews on the end of a pen. “Not like, 'dress as your favorite Russian literary' character specific, but not 'dress as a movie star' generic, either. Something in between. Inspiring but not limiting.” She nods to herself, quite satisfied with her own thinking.

Stiles mulls it over. He’s usually pretty good at anything pop culture-related. “Science fiction characters? Famous athletes? Famous writers?”

“Are you stupid, Stiles? It has to be something that gives women the opportunity to dress slutty but have plausible deniability about their actual sluttiness.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t think ‘Slutty Edgar Allen Poe’ is gonna cut it.”

“Ooh,” Stiles murmurs, imagining this. “Actually-“

“All right, you pervert,” she stops him. “Come on. Give me something good.”

The two bicker and brainstorm for a while before ultimately agreeing on movie/TV characters from the 1980s. Narrow enough, but lots of choices, plenty of them sexy.

“So what slutty character will you be?” Stiles asks Erica as she’s packing up her stuff. He remembers her saying she had a great idea cooked up already on the day they got Derek to agree to have the ball, but maybe that was just part of her begging tactic.

She furrows her brows. “As if. I always wear the least sexy costume possible. In protest. I might do Chewbacca…but that’s 70s, isn’t it?”

Stiles gapes at her. “But, but – you said that-”

She tosses her bag over her shoulder. “Keep up, Stilinski. I know how to raise money. Doesn’t mean I don’t have my own principles.” She marches out of the office, leaving a slightly confused but mostly impressed Stiles behind, watching her go.

*****

A week later, Stiles still hasn’t figured out a costume. Granted, he’s spent most of his free time necking with Derek on the couch, but still. The ball is coming up relatively quickly (they’d organized it on a short timeline to avoid winter weather for those coming from far away) and he’s totally devoid of ideas.

Erica is no help; she suggests only the most over-the-top or unflattering options, like Screech from _Saved by the Bell_ or Mr. Belvedere, while Jackson just sneers at them both, acting like he’s so above the ball when he’s obviously just protecting his costume idea jealously. Stiles secretly hopes he picks the same thing Jackson did, just to watch the guy’s head explode.

Deaton’s no help, either – he actually can’t list any 80s characters when pressed to do so, further confirming Stiles’ theory that he’s some kind of well-designed android. Derek isn’t an option since Stiles wants whatever he chooses to be a surprise, and texting his friends from back home just yields a lot of emojis and gifs of scenes from _The Lost Boys_ and _Pretty in Pink_, equally unhelpful. 

So he’s on his own with this one, having simultaneously too many ideas and no good ones. He’s right at the point of calling it quits and opting for Booger from _Revenge of the Nerds_ when he runs into Harris in the breakroom again. It’s become something of a pattern, with Harris around more and more frequently, getting progressively less frozen with Stiles each time. 

“Still no ideas?” he asks Stiles, who is literally pulling his hair out as he walks in.

“Ugh! Yes! No ideas. None.” Stiles flops down into one of the little metal chairs around the table in the breakroom. Harris hands him a cup of coffee, which is a whole new development in their budding relationship. Stiles briefly wonders if it’s poisoned, then reprimands himself before taking a sip and smiling gratefully.

“I was thinking this morning,” Harris intones slowly, “of Mr. Hale’s penchant for certain movies from the time period you’re considering. Things I remember him watching over and over when he was younger. Big Hale family favorites, actually.” He rinses out his own cup as he stands over the sink, his back to Stiles.

“Hmmmm,” Stiles muses. “That’s an interesting idea. Which movies?”

Harris shakes off his cup and dries it with a paper towel. Once the cup is sufficiently clean, he carefully sets it on the shelf, then turns toward Stiles.

“I remember,” he says, “a particular favorite. _Labyrinth_. Specifically, young Mr. Hale was quite taken with the Goblin King.”

Stiles gasps. “Oh my god, why didn’t I think of that? David Bowie! That’s genius. And yes, oh my god, yes! That movie made a real impression on me. I mean, it was probably the first time somebody’s _package_ was really front and center on the screen, you know? And what a package, geez!” He shakes his head, chuckling fondly at the memory.

Harris seems to curl inward upon himself in distaste, then visibly forces himself to relax. “Yes, well,” is all he responds, and it sounds like the words taste sour in his mouth.

Stiles can forgive him his Bowie-package squeamishness. It’s not for the faint of heart. But the Goblin King is going to make the best, coolest, most memorable costume ever. And to think – he has Harris to thank for it!

“I love it, Harris, you’re a genius.” He stands up and walks over to the man, planning to squeeze his shoulder in gratitude before realizing that might be a bit too much.

Harris looks extremely pleased with his success. “Of course, Mr. Stilinski. I am happy to be of help. If I may go a step further and suggest a costumer in San Francisco who would be more than up to the task of recreating the Goblin King’s attire, including the wig?”

Stiles hadn’t thought about that; where would he find supplies for any kind of costume in this town? But the thought of driving all the way to San Francisco is disheartening, especially since he’d have to leave Derek out of it to keep up the surprise.

Apparently reading Stiles’ mind, Harris says, “I have to go into the city myself tomorrow for a Foundation errand. I can relay your request to the individual I have in mind and they could mail the finished product here in time for the ball. They could call you for your financial information after I visit them. Would you be amenable to that?” He looks so eager to help; it’s quite a new look for him, Stiles thinks.

“Actually, man, that would be awesome. Thank you so much. For all of this!” He decides to just go for it and squeeze Harris’s shoulder, which gets a full-body clench in response, but hey, they’re making progress. They’re obviously making progress.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some tooth-rotting fluff, some smut, and some drama!
> 
> And if you're enjoying the crazy, suspenseful plot of this story, don't forget that it's the plot to Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, a book I HIGHLY recommend. But wait til you're done with this or it'll spoil the ending!
> 
> As always, THANK YOU for reading! Your kudos and comments heal my soul. <3

By the weekend, Stiles can finally feel properly excited about the ball, now that his costume is sorted and underway. He’d given the costumer his credit card number over the phone, so all he has to do now is wait for the FedEx delivery and put it on the night of the ball. In the meantime, he can relax and enjoy his boyfriend a little. (Or a lot.)

Fortunately Derek has the same idea, pretty much all the time. They always eat dinner together now, typically on a couch while arguing over what to watch (Stiles wants true crime documentaries or reality TV, Derek pretends to want history documentaries but really wants _Say Yes to the Dress_), always with a few limbs overlapping and a lot of googly-eyes exchanged. Stiles’ heart still swoops whenever their eyes meet, just like it did the first time. This boy (man) really does it for him.

So he’s extra excited when Derek suggests they spend their Saturday visiting a top-secret favorite spot of his, a place he’s never shared with anybody else. Stiles assumes he means anybody other than Jennifer, but says nothing; they have delicately avoided the topic of Derek’s dead wife ever since that day at the cove. Stiles knows this probably isn’t healthy, but he refuses to be the one to put that desperate, broken look in Derek’s eyes again.

Derek tells him to meet him at the Tesla, dressed warmly with waterproof footwear and an empty stomach. Stiles hopes this means Derek plans to feed him, not that their activity could be vomit-inducing. It’s hard to know with these outdoorsy types.

When Stiles gets to the car, Derek is leaning against the passenger-side door, reading something on his phone. He looks as mouth-watering as usual, especially since he’s decided to grow a full, luscious beard. It’s soft and thick and speckled with a few silver hairs, and all Stiles wants to do is feel it rub all over his bare skin. He starts to chew on his bottom lip as he watches Derek, who hasn’t spotted him yet. He takes in the man’s graceful posture, his expensive-looking cream-colored sweater, his thick-framed glasses. Fuck, those glasses. He looks like Professor Sex.

Derek must be able to feel the pheromones wafting off of Stiles because he looks up, his face melting into a smile when he sees his boyfriend. Stiles yanks himself from his impure thoughts, with difficulty, and ambles over to the car.

“Am I dressed appropriately? Is my attire okay?” he asks, gesturing to his flannel shirt and corduroys. He pulls a beanie that Allison crocheted for him over his messy hair and grins.

“If it’s causing me to have inappropriate thoughts, is that a ‘no’?” Derek growls into his neck as he pulls him into a tight embrace. He’s so warm, so solid. Stiles could stay right here forever, breathing in this heavenly man.

“You know, I never did make my bed, if you want to go back inside…” Stiles suggests, raising one eyebrow. Derek looks tempted for a moment, then shakes his head.

“As good as that sounds,” he says, squeezing Stiles’ hip, “I have something even better planned.”

“Better than me naked in a bed?” Stiles asks innocently.

“Ugh,” Derek grunts as he buries his face in his hands. “Shut up, you idiot. Stop being a menace. Get in the car.” He steps aside so Stiles can get in.

“If I didn’t hate the roads around here, you know, I would totally make you let me drive,” Stiles tells him as he climbs in.

Derek gets in on his side and smiles sweetly at Stiles. “And I would totally let you, dear,” he lies blatantly. “As if I didn’t learn my lesson that time you dragged me to a literal roadhouse in the middle of nowhere.”

“Hey!” Stiles cries. “First of all, the 24,000 citizens of Barstow would object to that characterization. And secondly, you had the time of your life.”

Derek smiles again, this time with full, soft sincerity. “I did. You know I did.”

Unable to resist, Stiles leans across the car to kiss Derek the way he wanted to kiss him that night at the bar, his hands gripping Derek’s face, his teeth gently sinking into Derek’s lower lip. Derek groans and swats him off. “You fucking incubus! I swear you’ll be the death of me.”

“What a way to go, right?” Stiles sighs as he leans back. 

*****

The pair end up driving for quite a while, on tiny roads that usually only allow for one vehicle at a time. Stiles wants to puke every time they have to pull off into the brush to let another car go by and he asks Derek if this is why he wasn’t supposed to eat.

Derek rolls his eyes as he pulls back onto the road. “No, you moron. I made us lunch.”

“You made us lunch? Or Alice made us lunch?”

Derek doesn’t look away from the road and his cheeks pink up as he says, “Well, Alice made it, but I told her what to put in.”

“Rich boys,” Stiles says with exasperation, shaking his head. “I think it’s my job and duty to bring you down.”

“Promise?” Derek says lowly, looking at Stiles now.

“Hey!” Stiles cries, hitting Derek’s arm. “Who’s the menace now? I’m being all G-rated over here, get your sex eyes off me.”

“My ‘sex eyes’? What the fuck are sex eyes?”

“Um, your eyes. Period. Your eyes are sex eyes. Keep them off me.” Stiles makes a show of turning to look out the window instead of at Derek and Derek chuckles. He sounds so happy. It’s how Stiles always wants him to sound. He realizes he’d like to spend the rest of his life making Derek this happy, and it freaks him out a little. He pushes that thought aside.

“Do we have a destination or is your plan just to drag me all over these mountains until I’m too motion-sick to resist your wicked impulses?” He steers them back to playful banter, a safe place.

“As if you could resist. But we’re almost there, actually, you impatient child.” Derek steers them off onto another tiny road.

“Well, you know, I was only seven when you graduated from high school…” Stiles taunts him.

Derek cringes hard. “You win. Shut up. Never speak again.”

Stiles sighs. “Sir, if there is any promise I can make less sincerely than that, I don’t know what it is.”  
The car breaks through the trees into a clearing just big enough to park in and Derek does. He sits still for a moment, then looks at Stiles, puzzled.

“How do you know the population of Barstow?” he asks with wonder in his voice.

Stiles shrugs. “I dunno. I just know stuff.” 

Derek smiles, his eyes searching Stiles’ face for a long moment. “Come on, then,” he says, opening his door. He grabs a thick wool blanket and a picnic basket (a literal, old-fashioned picnic basket, who is this guy?) from the trunk and starts heading down a narrow path into the woods. Stiles catches up and trails behind him, the way too narrow for them to walk side by side.

Stiles thinks about all the different wisecracks or jokes he could make right now, but decides to keep his mouth shut. It’s a gorgeous day; clear, crisp, that spicy edge of autumn in the cool air. It’s incredibly quiet here, the only sounds their feet on the dirt beneath, the birds around them, a distant rush of water. There’s peace here, soft and tranquil. They walk on, Stiles more at ease than he can remember being in a long time.

The trail ends at a lake shore, though one quite different than the one near Hale House. This isn’t the enormous Shasta Lake with its over 500 feet of depth and 47 miles of charging water. This is like a miniature lake, in comparison, probably not more than 100 feet long and 50 feet wide. It’s utterly still, the surface a mirror of the sky. There are no boats, no docks, no houses. Just a ring of narrow shoreline and seemingly endless trees.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes, reaching out for Derek’s arm and squeezing it as he takes in the view some more. “This is incredible, Der.”

Derek takes the hand wrapped around his arm in his own and interlaces their fingers. He says nothing, but he’s radiating contented calm. He releases Stiles’ hand so he can spread out the blanket he brought on the ground beneath them, and he anchors its corners with nearby rocks. He settles into the middle, legs drawn up to his chest. Stiles joins him and sits close.

“My parents brought me here when I was little,” Derek tells him as he gazes out at the water. “My mom always brought a picnic. I learned to swim here. I taught my little brother to swim here.”

The brother he lost, Stiles realizes with a pang.

Derek goes on. “After the accident, I couldn’t come here for a long time. It made them feel…even further away. Even more gone.”

Stiles nods. He understands. He wishes he didn’t.

“And then I guess, after a while, it felt good to hurt. Instead of further, it made them feel closer. And so I’d come here and just sit and feel that. And cry, mostly.” He smiles, a little embarrassed by the admission.

Stiles doesn’t respond, just snakes his hand back into Derek’s and silently urges him to go on.

“And then it stopped hurting and it felt safe to be somewhere I used to be with them, familiar and comforting. I went from hating reminders to craving them.” He turns and looks at Stiles. “You know?”

Stiles swallows, and nods. “I do.” He looks out at the water himself. “For years after my mom died I couldn’t look at any of her stuff. It was all boxed up in the garage and I couldn’t even think about it. And then, eventually, I started to miss her in a way that was more longing than excruciating. I got hungry for some small reminder of her. And I went through the boxes, really slowly at first, then all in one day. And the same things that would have cut me like a knife right after she died, those things were so comforting. Like. Like proof that she was real. She was really mine. She really loved me like that.”

Derek nods, and pulls Stiles toward him so that they’re nestled together, Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders.

“They were ours,” Derek whispers. “They’re still ours.”

Stiles knows that Jennifer is on that list for Derek, but for once he doesn’t feel threatened. He feels only empathy for everything this wonderful man has lost. He feels only gratitude that he gets to be the one sitting with him here, now.

They sit together quietly for a while until Derek retrieves his arm in order to fish something out of the picnic basket. He produces a giant thermos and two enamel camping mugs, the ones with the blue and white speckling. Of course he’s too classy for plastic, Stiles thinks fondly.

“Coffee?” Derek offers, holding up the thermos, one eyebrow lifted.

“Fuck, yes,” Stiles says, making grabby hands. Derek pours him a cup and he takes it, watching the steam rise with delight. He takes note of its light color and gasps after taking a sip.

“This has cream and sugar!” he cries.

“Isn’t that how you take it?” Derek asks in confusion as he’s pouring his own cup.

“But _you_ don’t,” Stiles declares. “I’ve seen you consume sugar, like, twice since we met.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I was hardly going to bring two separate thermoses of coffee. I won’t die if I have a little sugar.” He looks down at his cup. “I wanted it to be the way you like it.”

Stiles is pretty sure his heart bursts into a thousand pieces at that and he’s actually rendered speechless, no small task. So he just takes a grateful sip and says, very seriously, “Thank you.” He’s having so many feelings right now that he can’t even parse them. Needing to lighten the moment, he says, “I actually probably would have died without the sugar, so really, thank you.”

Derek huffs out a laugh and relaxes, seemingly glad himself for the levity. He sets down his coffee and rifles through the basket again, bringing out sandwiches, a few different kinds of salad in little glass tubs, and snickerdoodles, still warm from the oven. “My mom’s recipe,” he tells Stiles when he looks questioningly at the cookies.

“Yeah, but I see what you did there with the salads,” Stiles says accusingly, eyes narrowed. “Trying to health me up, I’m on to you.”

“Those are for me,” Derek says dryly. “I would never presume to make you eat something green.”

“Hey,” Stiles objects. “Mountain Dew is green, and I have no issue with it.”

Derek groans and tosses a sandwich at Stiles. Stiles gingerly sets it down on the blanket and scoots up closer to Derek. He leans in to kiss him, very slowly, and Derek makes a small sound of surprised pleasure when their lips meet. He sweeps his hand up to pull the beanie off Stiles’ head so he can thread his fingers through the younger man’s hair, rubbing circles in his scalp. Stiles groans. “I forget,” he whispers, “who’s going to be the death of whom here?”

Derek laughs huskily and reclaims Stiles’ mouth with more urgency. In silent agreement, they move to the side of the blanket without the food and drinks without ever coming apart, Stiles’ hands now on Derek’s shoulders. Derek tastes like sweet coffee, and like himself, a flavor Stiles can never get enough of.

Stiles is no virgin – he was downright promiscuous for a while in college – but everything he does with Derek feels new, and significant. When they’re touching it’s physically rewarding, of course, but there’s something else there that just magnifies it all, makes his head nearly explode with the intensity. He’s been wrapped up with somebody beautiful before, but this is so much more. He’s afraid to think what this might be.

So he doesn’t think. He just follows his body’s lead as it presses into Derek, pushes him down on the blanket and drapes itself over Derek. He kisses Derek deeper, deeper, their tongues licking at each other with urgency, their hands groping everywhere they can reach. It feels like fireworks are going off in Stiles’ gut as he nibbles his way to Derek’s neck, biting down gently and breathing him in. God, this man. Derek exhales deeply and pulls Stiles’ mouth back to his own.

Stiles barely knows where they are right now, the beautiful lake and the steaming coffee totally forgotten. He knows only this feeling, this intoxicating pull toward another person that he could not resist if he tried. He feels like he can never get enough of Derek, never tire of discovering him, never not thrill at his touch. You could tell him he had to spend the rest of eternity in a cardboard box with Derek and he would happily accept. It’s like a drug. Or maybe drugs are like this.

“How private is this place?” Stiles whispers into Derek’s ear before taking the lobe between his teeth. Derek shivers before whispering back, “This is Hale property. No one else comes here.”

That’s all the permission Stiles needs. He kisses Derek’s mouth again before he says, “Let me do something.”

He moves down Derek’s body, pushing up the cream-colored sweater just enough to brush his lips over Derek’s stomach. Derek breathes in sharply at the contact as he brings his hands to either side of Stiles’ head, gripping lightly. Stiles drags the tip of his tongue through the hairs on Derek’s abdomen as he unbuttons his jeans. Derek’s breathing heavily now, his back arched with desire. Derek’s desire is the fucking sexiest thing Stiles has ever seen in his life.

“Can I suck you?” Stiles asks in a rough, low voice, and he takes Derek’s responding full-body shudder as a yes. He eases the man’s pants and clingy boxer briefs down just low enough to get access to what he wants. He nestles his nose into the hairs around the base of Derek’s dick and inhales deeply. He loves the way he smells here, like purely his animal self.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek groans from above and Stiles looks up, their eyes meeting. There’s a look of pure, unguarded want on Derek’s face and Stiles takes it in greedily, never breaking eye contact, as he slides his tongue down the length of Derek’s half-hard cock. Derek squirms, squeezing his eyes shut, as Stiles takes him in and begins to suck him in earnest. They’ve done this before, but somehow it’s never been this intense.

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ head as Stiles moves his hands under Derek, to squeeze his ass cheeks as he traces the tip of his tongue over Derek’s slit. Derek gasps loudly and Stiles squeezes him more tightly as he takes Derek all the way down his throat. He loves the delicate trust at play here, how each man knows the other is so physically vulnerable at this moment, yet so completely safe. It’s a dizzying, humbling power exchange.

Stiles silently urges Derek to thrust down his throat and he does so, hesitantly at first, then more frantically as he cries, “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck!,” his hips bucking. Stiles continues to massage his ass as he bobs up and down, occasionally pulling almost all the way off to pay attention to the sensitive head of Derek's cock, and when he teases one fingertip around Derek’s hole, Derek practically screams out as he comes down Stiles’ throat. He’s still panting as Stiles pulls off with a pop, licking Derek clean as he slides up to lie down beside him, his head on Derek’s slightly heaving shoulder. Derek turns to take him in a deep, lingering kiss, before pulling off and sighing deeply, drawing Stiles into his arms. “That was…Jesus, Stiles.” He kisses the side of Stiles’ head.

Stiles chuckles and nestles in closer to the man. He’s high on sex endorphins right now, but he’s feeling something else. Something a lot stronger and a hell of a lot scarier. He’s been trying not to acknowledge it, but it’s useless. He’s totally fucked.

Stiles is in love with Derek Hale.

*****

The day of the costume ball, Hale House is abuzz with excitement. The typically sealed-off ballroom on the first floor is opened up and prepared for the band and several hundred guests, caterers are whirling in and out of the kitchen with armloads of glassware and towers of linen napkins. Alice is frantic, trying to micromanage everything the caterers do, and Harris is stalking around everywhere, barking out orders even more sharply than usual. Erica’s running around in her workout clothes, checking on every detail, and Deaton is just sort of ambling about, quite calm. Of course.

A handful of select, honored guests (close friends and big donors) have been invited to a sit-down dinner before the ball, including Cora and Isaac. Stiles is grateful they’ll be there, since he won’t know most of the other guests. He doesn’t mind getting nervous and running his mouth off embarrassingly, but for Derek’s sake he’d like to at least appear normal. Probably the most challenging aspect of their relationship yet.

Everyone will be in costume for the dinner, excluding Derek, of course, so Stiles gets ready in the middle of the day. He’s blown away by the costume Harris’s contact created; it’s practically an exact replica of the movie costume. He puts Scott on FaceTime as he gets dressed.

“Look,” Stiles says as he points at the crotch of the gray velvet leggings, “it’s got a padded package and everything!”

Scott frowns on the screen. “Doesn’t that, like, hurt your feelings, man?”

Stiles laughs. “Like Bowie wasn’t stuffing.” He stands up a little straighter and his face falls. “He was, right?”

“No idea,” yawns Scott. “Let’s see the rest.”

So Stiles walks him through it as he puts it on. The bell-sleeved white blouse with ruffles at the wrists and down the front, billowing out over the tight black pleather vest. The knee-high black boots, the black gloves, and the blond wig cut spiky all over the crown, long and stick straight with bangs. Scott howls with laughter at every step, though by the end he’s gone quiet with awe.

“It’s awesome, man,” he says in wonder.

“Now for the makeup,” sighs Stiles. “I’m gonna go. Wish me a steady hand.”

“Good luck. Have a great time. Have fun with Derek. Hey – I forgot to ask. How are things with you guys?”

Stiles smiles as he swipes a little brush into the white eyeshadow he’ll be drawing into peaks up his eyelids and brow bone, if he can get it right. “They’re…good. Really good. I think I…well, you know.” He’s known Scott long enough that he doesn’t have to spell out what he’s trying to say.

“Wow,” Scott says simply. “Damn. Do you think he feels the same?”

Stiles winces. He’s been trying not to ask himself that same question, but to just let things evolve on their own. “I hope so?” he says meekly.

Scott nods. “If he isn’t an idiot, he does. Love you man.”

“Love you, too, bro,” Stiles says as he hangs up and leans into the mirror. He’s gonna get this eye makeup right or die trying.

*****

For the last two weeks Stiles has been warning them all, but especially Derek, that they will get “the shock of their lives” when they see his costume, and he’s pretty damn excited to see their faces. The house has undergone an incredible, festive transformation and it’s almost time for the pre-ball dinner. As Stiles smooths down his wig in the mirror, someone pounds on his front door.

“Derek, for the last time, you’re not seeing me yet!”

“It’s me, dumbass,” yells Cora. “I wanna see your costume! Let me in!”

“Nope!” Stiles responds. “You’ll see me upstairs in a minute. Go away and let me get ready in peace!”

“Hurry up!” she snarls, and then there’s quiet. She’s left.

The truth is, Stiles wants to make an entrance and have everyone see him at the same time. He’s totally ready and could have given Cora a peek, but where’s the fun in that? He waits a few minutes, until he’s sure she’s back upstairs, and takes his secret indoor route to get to the foyer. That way he can descend the grand staircase in his getup. He giggles with excitement when he imagines their reactions.

Once he’s up the back stairway and around the corner from the top of the stairs, he can poke his head around and see that they’re all there in the foyer, waiting for him. Derek, Deaton, Cora, Isaac, Erica, Jackson. Everyone looks very dashing. Cora is dressed as Jennifer Beals from _Flashdance_, Isaac as a Ghostbuster. Erica is a stunningly perfect Beetlejuice, while Deaton is a straight-faced and hilarious Tootsie. Jackson is, unsurprisingly, Indiana Jones.

With a nervous intake of breath, Stiles steps out to the top of the stairs and clears his throat. He lifts up his chin, grinning, waiting for the inevitable wave of cheering and applause.

But there’s silence. They’re all staring up at him, but no one says a thing. No one even moves. Cora cries out in distress and covers her mouth with her hands. Confused, Stiles comes down the stairs, trying to adopt Bowie’s swagger. Looking at a wide-eyed Derek, he says, “How do you do, Mr. Hale?”

Derek is like a statue, frozen. He stares at Stiles, his face drained of color. Deaton approaches him, as if he’s going to say something, but Derek shoves him off. Something is wrong, Stiles can feel it. The tension in the air is palpable and Stiles’ gut tightens anxiously. Why is Derek looking at him like that? Why is no one moving?

Then Derek moves closer to Stiles, with big jerky steps. “What the fuck are you doing,” he hisses, eyes blazing with anger.

Now Stiles is the frozen one, rooted to the spot in silence, terrified and bewildered by this reaction.

“I’m…I’m the Goblin King. From ,” he utters weakly.

They stare at one another, the rest of the crowd still paralyzed. Stiles knows he’s done something wrong, but has no idea what.

“What is it, Derek?” he chokes out. “What’s going on?”

When Derek answers, Stiles doesn’t even recognize his voice. It’s ice cold and shimmers with hatred. It’s a voice Stiles has never heard before.

“Go change. I don’t care what you put on. Put on jeans and a shirt, it doesn’t matter. Go, right now, before anyone else gets here.”

Stiles is still rooted to the spot with fear. He doesn’t know what’s happening or what to do. Derek gets impatient.

“Why are you still fucking standing there? Did you hear what I said?”

Stiles clenches his fists and feels rage of his own boiling up inside him. “Yes, I heard you,” he spits out. “But, Derek-”

“Stop!” Derek bellows, his eyes gleaming with anger. “Go take it off!”

Stiles doesn’t know this man, and he doesn’t want to. He looks briefly at the little group huddled in the foyer, all of them pale and worried-looking. But they don’t look as shocked as Stiles feels, which puzzles him even further.

The horrible, haunting sound of Derek’s voice ringing in his ears, Stiles exhales in shaky frustration as he stalks upstairs and down the hallway leading back to the stairwell he can take to his apartment. Tears well up in his eyes and his blood feels like ice water in his veins. He knows where he’s going, but everything looks strange and confusing. He’s hurt, and he’s pissed, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

And then Stiles notices that the door to Jennifer’s bedroom, not far from the stairwell he’s headed for, is open, and someone is standing in the doorframe.

It’s Harris. And Stiles will never forget the expression on the man’s face: triumphant, scornful, satisfied. It’s the face of the devil.

Stiles runs right past him, yanking open the stairwell door and pounding down the steps as fast as he can, tripping over his David Bowie boots to get somewhere, anywhere else.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOO BOY this chapter is ANGST CITY. I apologize. Don't hate me. I promise I'll make it up to you!

Stiles tears into his apartment through its back door, yanking off his wig angrily as does. What the fuck is wrong with Derek? Why was everyone staring at him like that? Like they’d seen a ghost? Why wouldn’t Derek fucking talk to him? He can’t decide if he’s more humiliated, heartbroken, freaked out, or pissed off. Probably all of the above at maximum volume.

He’s unbuttoning the pleather vest with shaking fingers when someone knocks on his door. Stiles rushes to open it, assuming it must be Derek come to explain, to apologize. But it’s not. It’s Cora, looking utterly wrecked. She’s taken off her wig, too, and clutches it to her chest.

“Oh god, Stiles. Are you ok?” Her eyes are wide and almost watery. If she were the type to cry, Stiles thinks she probably would be.

Stiles just shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, but he steps back to let Cora in. She immediately goes to the kitchen and gets him a glass of water.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Her forehead creases with worry.

Stiles looks at the glass in her hand. “Can that be whiskey instead?”

Cora smiles, a little sadly, and goes back to the kitchen to replace the drink. From there, she says, “I knew it was an innocent mistake right away, of course. How could you have known? There’s literally no way you could have known.” She brings him the alcohol, shaking her head and looking resigned.

“Could have known what?” Stiles croaks in exasperation after he pounds the liquor. “What in the fuck in going on, Cora? What was that whole scene upstairs?”

Cora closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then sits on the nearest surface, an end table by the sofa. “Your costume – the Goblin King. It’s what Jennifer was for the last costume ball we had here. And your costumes were, like, identical to the last detail. Like they were made by the same person! For one unholy second I thought…” She shakes her head violently and stares at her hands, limp in her lap.

Stiles just collapses down onto the chair next to Cora, dumbfounded, the breath knocked from his lungs.

“I should have known,” he murmurs blankly, too stunned to make sense of any of it.

Cora scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is zero way you could have known. It’s just a horrible, horrible coincidence. We were just so shocked, in that moment. And Derek…” She looks at Stiles with the devastated expression on her face.

“Derek what?” he whispers, not sure he wants to hear what’s next.

“He, he – okay, I know this is ridiculous, but my brother can be…he thinks you did it on purpose. You kept telling him he was going to get the shock of his life, right? I mean, dressing like Jennifer certainly would be one way to do it.” She shudders. “Of course I told him you would never do that, you’re not cruel like that. It was just shit, shit luck.”

Stiles looks at her, speechless. He couldn’t imagine a more colossal fuck-up if he tried. How will he ever make this right?

Cora must read his mind because she reaches out and settles one hand on his knee. “Come on,” she says in a voice gentler than he’s ever heard her use, “it’s going to be okay. You’ll explain it to him, that it was all an accident. It’ll be fine once he stops being so stubborn and ridiculous. You know how he gets so caught up in his own pain-”

“No, Cora!” Stiles shouts, standing up. “I don’t! I don’t know nearly enough about him, and now I’ve gone and colossally fucked everything up without even meaning to, and if I were him I wouldn’t want to hear an explanation right now, either!”

She remains calm. “It’s going to be okay,” she promises him, though her voice wavers just enough to let Stiles know she isn’t sure about that. “Let’s find you something else to wear and go upstairs for the dinner, people are arriving.”

“Fuck, no!” He’s basically yelling now. “There is no way in hell I’m going back up there!”

She frowns. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but everyone’s going to wonder where you are. And Deaton came up with a story right away – said your costume arrived today and it didn’t fit, so you’re down here scrounging something up. Everyone’s expecting you, they won’t care what you’re wearing.”

“You don’t get it,” he hisses. “It’s not about not having a costume. I don’t give a shit about not having a costume. It’s about what I _did_. I can’t go up there. I can’t.” He hangs his head and feels the tears that were springing up before threatening to return.

“Stiles,” she says soothingly, or as soothingly as Cora can manage, “it’s going to be fine. Deaton and Erica and Isaac, they all get it was a just a terrible coincidence. And Derek, too. He will get it, I’ll pull him aside and explain.”

“No!”

Cora looks so upset, so worried. She stands up and places her hands on Stiles’ shoulders, looking up at him. “Everyone’s arriving. It’s going to look weird if you aren’t there, I can’t just say you’re sick.”

“Why not?” he sniffles. “People get sick.”

“Come on, Stiles,” she pleads. “Just buck up. Let’s find you something to wear. Think about Derek, this is your first public event as a couple. Come up for his sake.”

“Jesus, Cora,” he pulls back from her grip. “I’m always fucking thinking about Derek. I’m sorry – I can’t come up right now. Go to the dinner, please. I’ll be okay.”

Just then, another knock on the door. Cora pulls it open eagerly, probably expecting Derek like Stiles had before, but it’s Isaac. He looks Stiles up and down and whistles lowly. “What a shitshow,” he mutters. “You okay?” he asks Stiles, looking concerned.

Stiles laughs, but it’s hollow. “Not remotely. But thanks.” He looks at Cora. “Go on. I’ll try and come up later, during the ball, if I can. I don’t know.”

She nods, then hurries over and hugs him tightly, kissing him on the cheek. It’s a surprising display of affection. Into his ear she whispers, “It’s going to be okay. You’re so good for him. Don’t let this be the end.”

The thought of things with Derek ending, even though that’s probably inevitable right now, crushes Stiles and he really wants to cry now. So he hurries Cora and Isaac out the door, locks it behind them and stumbles, zombie-like, to his bedroom

He thinks maybe he’ll just go to sleep, wake up tomorrow and pretend this was all a nightmare. Figure out what happens next, call Lydia for advice. He flops backward onto the bed, not even removing the rest of his costume or getting under the covers. He’s too defeated to do much but lie there. And pray for sleep.

But sleep doesn’t come. Instead, he just sees that vicious, enraged look on Derek’s face, the stupefied looks on the faces of the others, the victorious sneer of Harris. Harris! He’ll deal with him later; he’s too broken to care about that piece of shit right now.

He lies there for nearly two hours, watching the ceiling fan spin and imagining what all the guests are thinking, saying. He knows Beacon Hills is a gossipy town, firsthand. So tonight they’re surely asking each other where he is, snickering about how Derek finally realized he’s too good for Stiles, that Stiles can never live up to someone like Jennifer. They’re laughing it up, at his expense. They’ll remember this ball for years.

Finally he’s just too annoyed and too restless, so he takes off the rest of the costume and stumbles to the bathroom to wash off the makeup. He looks at his reflection for a long time; wet face, flattened hair, and pure defeat in his eyes. He splashes some cold water on his face and tries to give himself a pep talk. Maybe he can’t fix things with Derek right away, or ever, but he can at least shut those catty townies up by showing up and acting normal.

He finds something innocuous to wear that will blend well into the crowd of sequins and bright colors and flash. Black jeans, a black henley. He gets his hair back to something like normal and pounds another shot of whiskey. And then another. He can do this.

He goes upstairs.

*****

The dinner is over, of course, and the ballroom is pretty full, though guests are still streaming through the front door steadily. Stiles slips in among them, camouflaged in his bland attire. He nearly trips over an already-drunk Freddie Krueger, but the guy is too busy howling over some joke with his friend to notice.

Once inside the crowded foyer, Stiles isn’t sure what to do with himself. He grabs a glass of champagne off a passing tray and starts to wander toward the ballroom, but Erica yanks on his arm and pulls him aside.

“You okay?” she demands, visually inspecting him like she’ll be able to see his wounds on the outside. If he were in the right frame of mind, he’d be touched by her concern.

“Nope,” he says cheerily, tossing back half the champagne.

“Jesus,” she says, sighing. “You might be the unluckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

“I think that’s an accurate assessment,” he responds weakly, as his eyes scan the crowd behind Erica for Derek.

She notices. “He’s in the ballroom,” she tells him. “He was a total asshole at dinner. Back to his old surly self. I’m going to have to do so much damage control with those donors.” She goes to toss her hair and then realizes she’s confined to the Beetlejuice wig and puts her hands on her hips. “Good thing I’m amazing at my job.”

“It’s your humility we value most of all,” comes the voice of Deaton, amazingly still totally dignified while dressed as Tootsie. He joins Stiles and Erica and hands Stiles a new glass of champagne, taking his empty one. “Hello, Stiles,” he says.

It’s Deaton’s version of asking how Stiles is doing emotionally, they both know that. Stiles just looks at Deaton meaningfully and nods. Erica excuses herself when the band starts playing the Macarena, which he’ll have to mock her for later.

Deaton doesn’t try to tell Stiles that it will all work out, that Derek will understand, that he shouldn’t worry. Deaton’s too smart for that, Stiles knows. But he’s still comforted by the man’s presence, and that he doesn’t seem to blame Stiles for the mistake. 

Mercifully, Deaton engages Stiles in a discussion on a case they’ve just started litigating against Aetna, which distracts him. He’s almost calmed down when he sees Derek emerge from the ballroom, walking next to a petite brunette who appears to be chatting his ear off while he nods jerkily from time to time. She sees Stiles and cries out.

“Oh!” Her voice is high and shrill. “Derek, introduce me to your new boyfriend!”

Stiles’ eyes meet Derek’s; they are as blank and cold as they were before. They are not the eyes of the man Stiles now knows he loves. And this rigid, uncomfortable person who comes to stand near him and Deaton is not the man he wants to be next to always. This is a stranger.

“Audrey,” Derek forces out in a stiff voice, “this is Stiles. And you know Deaton, of course.” Derek turns his focus to Deaton, likely so that he doesn’t have to look at Stiles anymore.

Audrey grasps for Stiles’ hand and gushes about how thrilled she is to meet him, and then another woman comes to join their huddle to meet Stiles. Soon it’s a steady progression of people coming to check out the happy couple, and they go through the motions of greeting people and saying hello. Throughout, Derek never speaks to Stiles, never touches him. They put on a good charade for the guests, smiling and laughing at all the right moments, but it’s fake. They’re like two actors, but on different stages and in different plays. They’re so far apart.

It goes on far too long, Stiles’ heart crumbling just a little bit more at every false promise to get together soon. Eventually the last curious thrill-seeker is satisfied and they are alone, and without a moment’s pause Derek turns heel and walks away, disappearing into the ballroom. The guests are beginning to depart, the crowd thinning. Stiles feels as weary as he’s ever felt, and not a little bit drunk. He’s sagging against the banister when Cora emerges from a group saying their goodbyes.

“How was it?” she asks warily. He just looks at her, and she purses her lips, nods. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

“I’m going to bed,” Stiles says. “Will you tell Derek?” He’s hoping, against all reason, that Derek will come to him tonight when all the guests are gone, that they can talk and repair things and spend the night together as they have every night Derek has been in town for the past month. If Derek doesn’t come, he’s terrified to think what it will mean.

“Of course,” she assures him, squeezing his hand again. “Take care, Stiles.” She watches him go upstairs to take the back route to his room, to avoid the crowds clogging the front door.

When he falls asleep, hours later, he’s still alone.


	19. Chapter 19

Stiles sleeps fitfully, and not for long. He wakes up to bright sunlight and for just a moment forgets the events of the evening before. He feels only that basic contentment that has greeted him every morning for a while now. And then BAM. He remembers last night, and it’s like an entire garbage truck has been emptied onto his face.

Derek never came to him last night. And as much as that hurts, as much as it burns in his chest to think about it, it almost hurts worse to know that all his fears were right on the money. All Stiles’ insecurities, all his worrying…he was right. Motherfucker.

Stiles shifts onto his side and stares at the doors to his closet. Kate Argent had called it. Derek is too hung up on his dead wife. No one can compete with her. Stiles has been a fun distraction for Derek, an amusement, someone to keep him from getting lonely in this big house. He definitely doesn’t love Stiles; he loves Jennifer. She is everywhere at Hale House, from her perfectly preserved rooms that Derek didn’t want Stiles moving into to the conspicuous absence of her photos, because the sight of her face would hurt Derek too much. She’s in that mummified lakeshore cottage that Derek wants no one to touch.

And Stiles? He’s just the kid whose appearance in Derek’s life shocked everyone, whom Cora had called “so different” from Jennifer, who Derek’s grandmother had rejected as a preposterous partner for Derek. He doesn’t belong here, not with Derek, not in this house.

Eventually, Stiles’ self-pity gives way to a need to pee, so he reluctantly drags himself from his bed. On his way to the bathroom, he sees a note slipped under his door. He goes and picks it up; it’s from Cora.

_I’m leaving this here so you’ll find it tomorrow…please hang in there. Derek cares about you. The costume thing will blow over. Promise. And you guys should come over to our place and hang out soon. XO Cora._

He swallows, gingerly placing the note on his kitchen counter. Cora has surprised him as their friendship has developed; beneath her gruff exterior she’s incredibly sweet.

Stiles showers, has coffee, gets ready for a quiet Sunday. Maybe he and Derek can talk, though he’s beyond hope at this point. Still, what does he have left to lose? He goes upstairs, through the front door this time, and sees Alice working on a stain on the stairway carpet, likely from last night. There are no other visible traces of the ball left.

“Morning, Alice,” he greets her. “Derek around?”

She rubs at the stain violently as she replies, “He went out early this morning, Mr. Stilinski. Didn’t say how long he’d be gone.”

Not surprising, Stiles thinks. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No, sir.” She spritzes the stain with more cleaner and attacks it with vigor.

“Stiles?”

Deaton is standing at the entrance to the Foundation offices, dressed casually but clearly here to work. The man typically works on the weekends; whether or not he has a family is a mystery to everyone.

“Hey,” Stiles croaks out. He wanders over to Deaton. “Do you know where Derek is?”

Deaton shakes his head and beckons for Stiles to follow him back into the offices. Once they’re past the doors that open into the foyer, Deaton asks him, “Was everything all right after the ball?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh.” Deaton looks surprised. And concerned.

“What did he say to you after everyone left the ball?” Stiles is desperate to know.

Deaton shakes his head, “I didn’t speak with him. He went to his rooms as soon as the last guests were filtering out. He didn’t talk to anyone.” He sits down in a chair in the little parlor that sits at the front of the offices and sighs deeply.

“Where do you think he is?” Stiles asks as he sits next to Deaton. “Where would he go?”

Deaton takes a long look at Stiles before responding, “Perhaps he went for a walk.” It’s utterly unbelievable; looks like he’s found something Deaton is bad at: lying.

“Listen, Deaton,” Stiles pleads. “I’ve got to see him. I have to explain about last night, about what happened. He thinks I did it on purpose, that I was pranking you guys with some sick joke.” He groans miserably at the thought.

“No, no,” Deaton shakes his head. “Derek wouldn’t think that.”

“Did you see him at all last night? Did you see the look on his face when I came down the stairs? Or how he wouldn’t talk to me the entire night? He can’t stand me right now. And honestly? I can’t blame him, if he really believes I did that. That would be some twisted shit.” 

“No, no,” Deaton keeps saying. “Listen, I think I can explain. But not here. Let’s go outside, let’s take a walk and I can explain.”

Stiles leans back against the wall. “No,” he says, “I can’t keep talking about it. But you know what? It’s probably for the best. It’s helped me see things more clearly.”

Deaton furrows his brow and looks at Stiles with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“About Jennifer. About him and Jennifer, their love, whatever. I get it now, I do.”

“What are you saying, Stiles?” Deaton sounds alarmed.

Stiles laughs a little deliriously. “That he still loves her! He’s never going to love me because I’m never going to be her. He’ll never get her out of his head.” He knows he should be embarrassed to be talking this way to his boss, but he can’t help himself.

“Listen, Stiles, we really must talk, please come outside with me.”

Stiles can’t bear to hear Deaton confirm all of this for him, can’t stand the idea of being showered in his sympathy. He stands up.

“No, no, I can’t. I’ve got to go.” He needs an outlet for his rage and he can think of only one that would be appropriate.

*****

Stiles finds Harris in Jennifer’s rooms, as he’d expected. He wonders if the man sneaks up here to sleep at night; wouldn’t surprise him.

Harris stands at the window that looks out to the lake, hands in his pockets, his back to the door. Stiles takes a moment to steel himself, to think about how Harris planned all of this, how Harris knew exactly what would happen, how he would have seen Derek’s reaction all night last night, and how pleased he must be right now on Jennifer’s behalf. Stiles hates himself for ever thinking the guy might have a decent bone in his body. 

“Harris,” Stiles says, coming to stand a few feet away from the man.

Harris turns and looks at him; his eyes are red and swollen, like he’s been crying. He looks so defeated, so miserable, that for a moment Stiles forgets why he came upstairs.

“Do you need something, Mr. Stilinski?” Harris asks, his voice hard.

“I think you know why I’m here, Harris.”

Harris says nothing, just turns to look out the window again.

“Are you happy?” Stiles demands. “Did you get what you wanted? Did it all go as planned?”

Instead of answering, Harris whirls on Stiles. “Why are you even here? Everything was fine before you got here. No one wants you here!” No longer sad, his eyes glisten with that familiar hatred he always shows Stiles.

Stiles isn’t sure how to respond; he’s not sure if he even disagrees with Harris. But Harris goes on.

“I thought I hated you, you know. But I don’t. Now I just don’t care.”

“Why would you hate me?” Stiles blurts out. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You tried to replace her!”

Stiles chokes out a strangled laugh; is this really happening? “You can’t be serious. It’s been three years. Derek is allowed to move on, to be happy.”

“He’s not happy,” spits Harris fiercely. “Any fool can see that! He’s been in hell since she died. Nothing can change that.”

“You’re wrong,” Stiles retorts, half to convince himself. “He has been happy with me. You should have seen him when we weren’t in Beacon Hills; he still knows how to be happy. I know how to make him happy.”

Harris smiles cruelly. “I’m sure he’s happy when he’s fucking you; he is a man, after all. But that’s not real happiness.”

Stiles’ body tenses with anger; he holds himself back from punching Harris in the face for that remark. Instead he says, “You made me wear that costume last night, you fucker. You did it to hurt Derek, to make him suffer. Hasn’t he suffered enough? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“What do I care about Derek’s suffering?” Harris sneers. “He’s never cared about mine. What do you think it’s been like for me to see you here, in this house, with him, carrying on? If he’s suffering, he deserves it.” The look on his face is pure contempt.

“What about me?” Stiles demands. “How about how it makes me feel to have you rubbing Jennifer in my face constantly?”

Harris ignores him. “She was so incredibly lovely, you know? From the moment I met her. There was no one like her. Everyone loved her. But no one ever got the better of her. No one. She did what she wanted to do, always. No one could keep her down. And I suppose no one ever did. The river did that. The river got her.” He begins to cry again, burying his face in his hands and downright howling.

“Harris.” Stiles isn’t angry anymore, he’s not intimidated by Harris anymore. This whole scene just makes him feel sick. “Harris, you need to calm down. Go rest, get some water.”

“Fuck you!” Harris hisses. “What’s it to you if I show my grief? Am I not allowed to mourn her? I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t hide it away, like Derek does. I don’t lock myself in my room and pace all night long, sick with the pain of missing her.”

“Derek doesn’t do that.” But Stiles doesn’t actually know.

“He did,” Harris assures him. “All night, every night, for months after she died.”

“Harris,” Stiles rubs at his eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“And you say you make him happy!” Harris giggles. “How ridiculous! What do you know about life, about anything, you’re practically still a child. You know the whole staff had a good laugh about him bringing you here. The absurdity of it!” Harris shakes his head with amusement, his face an appalling blend of misery and delight.

“Shut up,” Stiles growls. “Just shut up, get out of here.”

“Or what?” Harris barks. “You’ll tell on me to Derek, just like you did after Peter came to see me?”

Stiles huffs out an incredulous laugh. “I actually never said anything to him. Even though I planned to.”

“Please,” Harris rolls his eyes impatiently. “How else would he know? And why shouldn’t I invite Peter here? He’s the only connection to her I have left. He was very important to her, you know. Derek was always so jealous. So jealous. That’s why he forbids Peter to be here. But there were so many men to be jealous of when it came to her! Every man who met her wanted her.”

“I don’t care, Harris,” Stiles lies. “Just stop.”

“You get it, don’t you?” Harris asks him, sidling up closer. “You get that you’ll never take her place, that she’s the real partner to Derek, that you’re the shadow, the ghost? What’s the point? Why do this to yourself? Why don’t you just leave?”

Stiles steps back from Harris, all his insecurities swelling at Harris’s rabid stream of consciousness. Cognitively he knows he shouldn’t listen, but on a deeper level he agrees; he should just leave. Go back to his dad, or his friends, somewhere he’s safe and loved.

Sensing the weakness, Harris presses further. “You’re not happy. I can see that. He will never love you. You’re just torturing yourself by staying here. But you’re young. You can go anywhere. Why stick yourself in this town, with this unavailable man? Leave now, before he hurts you more. Just get in your car and go, today.”

Stiles stares at Harris, unable to form a response. Maybe Harris is right. Maybe there is no coming back from the costume debacle and he should just leave. It might be better for everyone. He can go downstairs right now, pack up and be gone before Derek gets back from wherever he’s gone.

Just then, Stiles’ eye catches a cloud of orange smoke bursting over the surface of the lake in the distance. “What the fuck…” he mutters. Harris turns to look and jumps in alarm.

“Those are distress signals. Something’s happening. The Coast Guard uses them when someone’s gone missing in the water.”

Harris stays glued to the window as Stiles flies out the door.


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles hears a commotion in the foyer as he heads in that direction: Deaton’s voice issuing instructions, Alice worrying loudly, coats getting buckled on. It looks like everyone in the house is headed out to the lake to see if they can help. Derek’s still nowhere to be seen, and Stiles commands himself not to imagine that he’s the one out there, gone to join his dead wife in some sort of poetic and terrible end. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but the thought of Derek hurt…it’s physically painful.

“What’s happening?” he asks the assembled group, hoping he sounds only slightly panicked. They’re all keeping their cool: Deaton, Alice, Leo, and someone Stiles doesn’t recognize.

“Swimmer gone missing, drowning risk,” Deaton says hurriedly as he pulls on rubber boots. Of course it’s drizzling outside. 

Keeping his mind carefully blank, Stiles gets his own jacket from the hook near the door and pulls it on. Wordlessly, the group gets down to the cove as quickly as they can. It’s borderline cold outside; why would someone be swimming in this weather?

Trying to quell his panic, he feels a rush of relief when he hears Derek’s voice, steady and clear as he communicates with someone out of sight. Derek must have just gotten home and hurried directly to the water when he saw the Coast Guard presence on the property.

Stiles and company break into the cove a few minutes later to see a group of people gathered there: a few men in Coast Guard gear, some curious onlookers, and Meredith, although she’s set far back from the others, huddled into a ball on the sand near the boathouse.

“What’s the latest?” Deaton calls out to one of the Coast Guard men, who appears to know him. “Alan,” he nods. “Just gave Mr. Hale the rundown; he’s gone out on one of the vessels with the divers.”

“What?” Stiles jumps in. “Derek’s out there? Why?”

“Don’t worry,” Deaton says, “he knows this part of the lake well, he’s helping.” To the official he asks, “How long has the swimmer been missing?” He says it with a lowered voice, so that the onlookers won’t freak out, Stiles presumes. He wonders where they came from. Audiences do seem to materialize in a crisis.

The official looks bleak when he says, “It’s been a few hours, sir. At this point we’re probably looking for a body. But we’re not giving up hope.”

Stiles thinks about his fear that it was Derek out there and shivers with gratitude, then feels like a monster; that’s someone else’s loved one out there. Shoving aside the guilt, he asks, “Is there any way we can help?”

The man shakes his head. “We’ve got a whole crew in various parts of the lake. All you can do right now is pray for the poor soul out there in that.” He jerks his head toward the lake, which has lost its usual shine with the misty rain sprinkling over it. It’s calm, at least. 

“We’re heading up the shoreline a bit now,” the man informs Deaton. “We’ll radio if we need assistance on the property.” Deaton nods. 

The onlookers, seemingly disappointed in the lack of action, start to disperse, gradually drifting up and down the shore, back to wherever they came from. Meredith watches them go over her drawn up knees.

“No sense in staying out here right now,” Deaton announces to their little group, and they start ambling back to the path. Except Stiles.

“I think I’ll just sit for a bit,” he tells Deaton. There’s still a trace of worry around Deaton’s eyes whenever he’s looking at Stiles. Stiles wants to wipe it right off. He wants there to be nothing to worry about.

“You sure?” The others are already well on their way, but Deaton hangs back. “It’s not very pleasant out here.”

“It’s not very pleasant inside here, either,” Stiles jokes, pointing at his head. When Deaton doesn’t smile, Stiles does. “I’m fine, really. Just need a moment.”

Deaton seems unconvinced, but he reluctantly heads out, leaving just Stiles and Meredith in the cove. Stiles stares straight out at the placid, cold lake, and hopes against hope that whoever’s out there will be okay.

After a while of sitting on the dock, his mind blank, he looks up to see Meredith settling down beside him. She doesn’t say anything, and they just sit like that for a few minutes. Then she speaks.

“Did you see?” 

Stiles frowns. “See what? The swimmer? No, did you?”

Meredith ignores the question and begins to swing her legs. “They’ll save her. I know it. She won’t sink like the other one.”

“Who? What other one?” Stiles wonders if Meredith saw two swimmers vanish under the water and begins to worry. 

“Her, silly,” Meredith says with a mysterious smile. “The other one.” She makes a face like it’s obvious who she’s talking about.

“Meredith – this is important. Did you see someone else out there? Did you see two people disappear in the water?”

She crinkles her forehead. “Of course not. I didn’t see anyone out there today. Those men are looking.”

Stiles sighs; this conversation isn’t going to help clear out his cluttered mind. “Gotcha,” he says, pulling up to a stand and stretching his arms over his head. He’s not particularly excited about going back to the house, but he can’t stay out here much longer in the chill and damp.

“Bye, Meredith, I’m going up,” he says, but she’s humming to herself and doesn’t pay him any attention. He walks back home slowly, wondering what comes next.

*****

Derek isn’t back at the house when Stiles arrives. Instead of going to his apartment, where he knows he’ll just go back to bed and lick his emotional wounds, Stiles heads for his desk in the Foundation offices. His laptop is there and he needs to do some planning.

He spends a couple of hours trying to be productive; he looks for jobs similar to the one he already has, but in other places, California and beyond. Even if he leaves this place, he’s come to love the work, how he gets to dig for clues and unravel puzzles in other people’s legal problems. Maybe he could really go for it, move out to New York. MoMa is hiring an assistant in their legal department, but they want someone with a paralegal certificate, and Stiles doesn’t know anything about art. He rubs his forehead with frustration and tries some different Google searches.

Stiles wants to call someone, like his dad, or Lydia, but he can’t bear the thought of reliving last night by describing it. He doesn’t want to discuss it at all until he can discuss it with Derek, make him understand. Looking for jobs across the country doesn’t excite him; it makes him feel like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest. He wants to be here. He wants Derek.

He’s rising to make some coffee when Deaton pokes his head into the room. “Have you heard from Derek?” he asks, pointedly looking at Stiles’ iPhone on the corner of his desk.

Stiles snorts bitterly. “As if.”

Paying no attention to Stiles’ reaction, Deaton curses “dammit,” under his breath, then disappears from the doorway like a flash.

_What the hell?_ Stiles wonders, instinctively following Deaton. He hangs back in the hallway and watches him greet that same guy from the Coast Guard earlier, apologizing that they don’t know where Derek is but that he’s Derek’s attorney and can speak to him instead. If Stiles positions himself just right, he can watch and listen without them knowing he’s there.

“He must have decided to walk back from the last stop for the divers,” mutters the official. “Well, if this is confidential, then?”

“Completely,” Deaton nods.

“Okay, as I’m sure you heard on the radio, we found the swimmer, got him airlifted out, hopefully in time. We’re cautiously optimistic.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“It is.” The man takes a deep breath. “But when the divers did their exploration down here, down by the cove? They found something.”

Deaton says nothing.

“Now you know we’re all very fond of Mr. Hale, we’ve known him a long time, and we don’t want to dredge up the past or make life difficult for him.”

“Of course.”

“But the diver – he was a local guy, lived around here all his life – he found a boat down on the bottom of the lake, a ways out from the shore down there. And he recognized it, knew right away it was Jennifer Hale’s boat.”

Stiles is simultaneously relieved that Derek isn’t hearing this right now, and incredulous at the bad timing of this discovery. Derek is going to find this out right after Stiles dressed up as his dead wife? Awesome. Perfect.

“I see,” Deaton says quietly.

“It gets worse, I’m afraid.”

More silence.

“The diver, he looked inside the boat, to make sure our swimmer hadn’t gotten caught down there or something and, well, there’s no delicate way to put this: he found a body in the cabin. Reduced to bones, of course, but clearly a human body. So now you understand why I’ve really got to talk to Mr. Hale directly.”

_So she wasn’t alone that night_, Stiles realizes, stunned. _There was somebody out there with her. Oh god, what will this do to Derek? How can he bear this news?_

“In the meantime,” the official went on, “you know this will create a helluva lot of publicity. So be prepared for that. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

“We appreciate the information,” Deaton responds briskly. “Thank you. I will put Mr. Hale in contact with you the moment I see him.”

“I’m going to go report the body now, so you have a little lead time.” He goes to open the door, but it opens on its own, producing a rather dampened Derek. He looks haggard and tired.

“What’s going on?” he asks, alarm in his voice.

Not wanting to hear it all again, or hear Derek’s reaction, Stiles creeps back to his office, silently shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t go to his desk, but leans back against the wall next to the door, eyes shut tightly.

There’s no explanation for the second body that won’t crush Derek. Whoever it was, their presence on the boat was a secret to everyone in Jennifer’s life. A secret she literally took to her grave. And that’s one more ghost to haunt this house.

Stiles stays put, willing himself to stay calm, to not have a panic attack over all of this. He breathes slowly until he feels a bit more settled, which takes some time. And then he decides to find Derek.

There’s no sign of Deaton anymore, or of the Coast Guard guy, but Derek is sitting on the staircase, head in his heads. He’s still wearing his rain-soaked clothes and probably hasn’t moved for a while. The sight of him makes Stiles’ chest go tight.

“Derek?” he whispers. Derek doesn’t move.

“Derek,” he says more loudly, sitting down next to him and cautiously touching his arm. “Derek? I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Derek lifts his head and looks at Stiles. He wears a look of total defeat, but the anger of last night is gone. He lifts his arm and pulls Stiles in close, hugging him tightly. Stiles’ body melts into his.

“Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s wet sweater sleeve.

“Forgiven you? For what?” Derek sounds like he’s a million miles away.

Stiles sits up so he can look at him directly. “Um, last night? The costume? Cora said you thought I did it on purpose. You have to know I would never-“

Derek scrunches up his face and waves his hand. “Oh, that.” He laughs darkly. “Forget it.”

“Come on,” Stiles urges him. “We need to talk about this.”

“We don’t.”

“Derek, you have to let me in. I get it, I do – you’re not ever going to, to love me, but maybe-“

Derek lifts a finger and presses it to Stiles’ lips, to quiet him.

“Do you really want to be with me?” His face is so pale; he looks so weary.

“Of course,” Stiles whispers as Derek’s finger slips away. 

Derek turns his gaze down to the stairway carpet and he traces little patterns in the nap. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. We could have been happy, but – not anymore.”

“No.” Stiles says fiercely.

Derek doesn’t look up. “It’s over now. It happened.”

“What happened?”

“The thing I’ve been worrying about happening all this time. For years, actually. It finally happened. And now it will destroy everything. But especially us.” He can barely force out the last few words and he won’t look at Stiles.

Stiles shifts so that he can grab the sides of Derek’s face and force him to look into his eyes. “Derek Hale. What are you trying to say? What the fuck is going on here?”

Derek swallows. “She won. Jennifer won.”

Stiles stares at Derek, his heart beating ever faster, his mouth dry. He can’t speak.

Derek eyes him woefully. “Her shadow is over us, always. Keeping us apart, because I was always so afraid of this happening. I didn’t want to get too close. She knew this would happen. She knew she would win in the end.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Her boat. They found it. Today.”

“I know, I heard. Earlier.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to just stare at Stiles.

“This is about the other body,” Stiles says carefully. “How it means someone was with her. And now you’re trying to tell me that you have to find out who it was?”

Derek shakes his head.

“This doesn’t have to be the end of us, Derek,” Stiles insists. “I can do this with you. You don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Derek reaches up to where Stiles’ hands still clutch his face. He drags them down and releases them.

“There was no one else with Jennifer in the boat. She was alone.”

Stiles waits, not understanding.

“That’s her body they found today, Stiles. Jennifer’s.” Derek doesn’t blink. 

“Derek, that’s nuts. You already identified her body! It’s not her. You have no idea who it is down there.” 

“I know it’s Jennifer, Stiles,” Derek takes a deep breath. “I know because I’m the one who put her there. I’m the one who killed her.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a looooooong chapter that is VERY NSFW in the second half.
> 
> TW for pregnancy loss; see end notes for details.
> 
> GUYS!!! This story is now FINISHED! I'm just revising the final chapters before I post them. Thank you all for reading this far! Come hang out with me on Twitter and say hi! I'm @quazydellasue

“Derek,” Stiles offers quietly, “I think you’re confused.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and fixes Stiles with a piercing glare. “I assure you I’m not.”

“But…” Stiles doesn’t know what else to say.

“I killed her, Stiles. I shot her, and I carried her to the cabin of her boat, and I took her boat out and sunk it, right where they found it today. I did all of that. So – can you tell me you still want to be with me?”

There’s fear and hurt and a flash of defensive anger in Derek’s eyes as Stiles looks at him and says, “I can tell you I want to hear the whole story.”

Derek huffs, like he doesn’t understand why Stiles wants to drag them through this pointless exercise. “Fine,” he barks, “but not here. My room.” 

Derek stands and stalks off to unlock the door to his rooms, then charges through without waiting for Stiles. Stiles almost has to run to catch up. Once they’re inside his room, Derek slams the door shut.

“Do you really want to hear this?” he demands. He gets very, very close to Stiles.

“Have I ever, at any point, seemed like the kind of person who would _not_ want to know what the fuck was going on?” Stiles assumes a bravado he doesn’t feel and crosses his arms over his chest.

Derek sighs and points to the sofa before sitting down himself. Stiles takes the other end of the sofa and Derek looks at him pointedly. “See?” he insists. “You already don’t want to be near me.”

“Shut the fuck up, Derek,” Stiles hisses. “I feel exactly the same way about you that I always have. But I’m trying to wrap my head around one of the most mind-blowing revelations of my entire fucking life, thank you very much. Is it too much to ask for a little personal space?”

Derek looks slightly mollified but says “It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re going to figure it out very soon, they’re going to check the dental records and then look at the holes in the bottom of the boat, and it’s all going to be over. You’ll never even see me again.” He twists his hands together restlessly as he speaks.

When he stops, Stiles takes a moment. All the uncomfortable and bizarre pieces of the last few months are coming together: Derek never wanting to talk about Jennifer, Derek not having any pictures of Jennifer around, the way he seemed so ill at ease sometimes, his aversion to the cove and the boathouse. _If you had my memories, you wouldn’t want to go there either_. Harris describing him pacing up and down, all night long for months. And then Stiles coming down the stairs looking like Jennifer come back to life….fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

All Stiles can say is, “What are we going to do?”

Derek doesn’t say a word. Stiles crawls over to Derek’s side of the sofa and sprawls on top of him, feeling his warmth and breathing his scent. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling or thinking, but he knows he wants to be close to this man. It doesn’t make any sense, the son of a sheriff cozying up to a confessed murderer, but nothing makes sense right now.

“I thought I would lose my mind,” Derek says eventually, as he strokes Stiles’ hair. “Right after it happened, the way everyone was so sympathetic, all the cards, the flowers. Trying to act normal with the staff. With Harris, that asshole. I’ve always thought he might suspect something, so I never wanted to fire him and risk pissing him off. And Deaton, always trying to support me, Cora, always telling me I didn’t look well, that I needed to take care of myself.” His grip tightens in Stiles’ hair.

“I almost told you, once,” Derek whispers. “That day we had a picnic.”

“Why didn’t you?” Stiles asks.

Derek exhales deeply. “You’re so young, Stiles. You have everything ahead of you. And you’re so full of life, and energy, and ideas. You haven’t fucked up your life; you’ve barely started it. I never wanted to drag you down with me. I mean, I wanted to, for myself. From the beginning. But I also didn’t want to do that to you.”

Stiles pulls back and sits up a bit, still lying on top of Derek but with his back supported by the sofa. “I knew something was going on with you. But I didn’t want to push. I tried so hard not to push you into anything before you were ready. Believe me, it took effort. _Restrained_ is not a typical look for me.”

Derek smiles, barely. “I just thought you were trying to keep some space between us. Not tie yourself down to someone who lives in the middle of nowhere when you’re only 23.”

“How could I not try to leave space between us, Derek, when I knew you still loved someone else?”

Derek pulls Stiles closer and knits his brows together. “What are you talking about?”

“This is the first time I’ve been serious about someone. But it’s not the first time for you. And I was always thinking about how you were probably comparing me to Jennifer, or thinking about how you’d done things with Jennifer in the same places, the same rooms. That she was always on your mind.”

Derek stares, not moving a muscle.

“I was right, wasn’t I,” Stiles mutters, trying to pull out of Derek’s grasp.

Derek lets him pull back and just sits there, looking shell-shocked. “Holy shit.” He stands up and starts pacing in front of the TV, running his fingers through his hair.

“What,” asks a defeated Stiles.

Derek stops pacing. “You think I loved Jennifer? And now you think I killed her, even though I loved her?

“I _hated_ her, Stiles. Our marriage was a complete farce from day one. She was an evil, manipulative monster and we never loved each other, or even liked each other. I’m not sure Jennifer was capable of love. Or even basic human decency.”

Stiles tries to come up with some sort of response, but just sits there spluttering, his brain shorting out like something electric tossed into the bath.

“She was brilliant,” Derek concedes, sitting back down. “So brilliant she could convince anyone of anything. Especially that she was this sweet, kind, amazing person. She had an incredible gift for figuring out exactly what people wanted her to be, what they needed from her, and she’d transform into the exact perfect thing. She could fool anyone. She could have fooled even you. For a minute, anyway. She had me fooled for a little while.”

“But…why would you marry her, then?”

Derek laughs, but it’s a cold, hollow thing. “She got pregnant. We’d been dating for like two weeks and she got pregnant and I…after what happened to my family…I honestly felt like I had this duty to make us into a family, and I didn’t know then how impossible that would be. I thought, well, this isn’t how I planned on things going, but when has my life ever gone according to plan? At least I can have a family again.” 

Seeing the question in Stiles’ eyes, Derek continues, “She lost the baby. After four months. She wasn’t even showing yet. We’d gotten married right after we found out she was pregnant, because she didn’t want her parents finding out.” He rolls his eyes at the absurdity of that.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says sincerely. Derek nods and looks down.

“Just one more tragedy to add to the pile. Really paved the way for the rest of my relationship with her. Not that I can blame her for that one. I’m not jaded enough yet to think she had anything to do with that.”

“So you met her,” Stiles tries to make sense of this, “and she was super charming and beautiful, and then you got quickie-married and after four months she lost the baby and went psycho on you?”

“No, no.” Derek sits up straighter. “We got quickie-married and then like a week later I started finding out she wasn’t who I thought. She just started acting strangely, like not wanting to sleep in the same bed anymore, or even be touched by me. I chalked that up to the pregnancy. But then she started calling me horrible names, making fun of my dead family-”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes.

“Yeah,” Derek nods, “even the kids the Foundation helps. She’d mock them, laugh when the really sick ones died. It got harder and harder to be around her, and she started meeting up with random men, in San Francisco, or fucking them in her boathouse. Which, by the way, was just an old storage shed when she first got here, but she had it converted into her playhouse right away. Bought herself a boat, too.” He scratches at his beard. “Bought herself pretty much everything she could think of to buy.”

Meredith comes to Stiles’ mind suddenly, and her odd words at the cove. About the other woman, the bad, tall woman who threatened her with Eichen House. So she was talking about Jennifer, and she wasn’t confused. She must have seen Jennifer messing around with men there, and Jennifer wanted to keep her quiet. Jesus.

“I confronted her, after the miscarriage, after she’d had some time to recover – although she didn’t seem remotely upset about it – and told her we were obviously not compatible, and we should call it quits. But the prenup my grandmother made us sign made it very clear that divorce in the first five years would mean no money at all for Jennifer, and she was broke when I met her.”

“So she just refused?” Stiles asks.

“Pretty much. She said that separating wasn’t an option, and that if I tried to leave her for any reason before five years were up, she’d destroy the Foundation. She’d ruin our relationships with the sponsors who keep us running, turn us in to the IRS with doctored books, accuse Deaton of child molestation, you name it.” 

“Oh my god,” is all Stiles can say. He scoots closer to Derek.

“But she said if we stayed married, she’d make it worth my while, she’d convince everyone we were the happiest couple in America and I could devote all my time to the Foundation and she’d never say a word. All I could think was that she obviously never knew me at all, if she thought I could ever be content in a loveless marriage. But, like I said, she couldn’t love. She probably couldn’t even grasp what I would be missing.”

Stiles rests a hand on Derek’s leg. 

“It gets worse. Of course. I should have just called her bluff and hired all the best lawyers in the country. I could have stopped her from following through on her threats. Because being married to her was pure torture. Especially when she started fucking my uncle, my mother’s little brother.”

“Peter…” Stiles realizes, connecting the dots.

Derek looks surprised at Stiles knowing the name, but Stiles makes the universal gesture of “I’ll explain later” to encourage Derek to keep going.

“They spent half their time in San Francisco, holed up in one luxury hotel after another, spending my family’s money as fast as they could. Snorting it up their noses. Sending me selfies from a car they’d just bought on a whim. She saw other men, too. But she somehow always managed to keep up the appearance of being the perfect wife.” He shakes his head in amazement. “Everyone was completely fooled.”

“So when Harris said you guys would go to Fashion Week in Paris…”

He snorts. “She’d force me to go with her, make sure we were photographed together, then ditch me at the hotel and go on a bender until it was time to go home. She loved those trips.”

Derek goes silent then. He’s quiet for so long that Stiles squeezes his hand, asks him why he stopped.

“Do you still want to be with me now?” he asks Stiles. He says it like he knows the answer will be no, but he prays it’s not.

And Stiles still doesn’t know what to think of any of this. He still doesn’t know how or why Derek actually killed this horrible woman he never should have married. But so far everything Derek has told him has made sense, in some weird logical way, and he has this strange faith that it all will. That Derek’s not going to tell him anything that will make him want to run away. Despite everything, he still fundamentally trusts Derek.

He grabs Derek by the back of the neck and looks him straight in the eye. “Yes. 100%.”

Derek makes a small surprised sound and then kisses Stiles, fast and hard and uncoordinated, but with all the promise and hope Stiles feels within himself right now.

When he pulls back, Derek says. “I don’t like talking about this. I don’t want to remember any of this. It was the darkest period of my life.”

Stiles nods.

“But I need you to know this, all of this. This is part of me, whether I like it or not.”

Stiles kisses him. Derek returns the kiss and then softly pushes him off.

“I know I haven’t explained why I killed her. It wasn’t anything premeditated, I swear. It’s just that things started going from bad to worse: she started hitting on Deaton, threatening to get him fired if he didn’t sleep with her – Deaton eventually told me about it and said he’d resign, which thankfully I convinced him not to do. She started driving drunk, having random men come to the boathouse when anyone could see them. She just went off the rails. Nobody had noticed yet, but it was only a matter of time before someone did. I was worried about what would happen, to the Foundation especially. I needed her to cool off, stop being so obvious, stop putting people in danger. Then she made Isaac go out on her boat with her when he and Cora were down here and I think she must have made a pass at him – Isaac wouldn’t go near her after that. Don’t think Cora ever liked her,” he added wryly.

So this explained Deaton’s odd manner whenever Jennifer came up, Cora’s vague offhand comments. Stiles can’t believe the lies he’s been telling himself for months, the elaborate stories he’s come up with to explain away the truth, and at great cost to himself. He should have just been brutally honest with Derek from the beginning.

“How did you know who Peter was?” Derek remembers to ask, just then.

“He came by once, to see Harris, while you were away. He told me not to tell you. And I was actually going to, but then I overheard you talking to Harris about it, and you were obviously upset, so I didn’t want to poke at that bruise.”

“More like an open brain-bleed,” he muttered. “Peter’s the one who brought it all crashing down. He kept pushing Jennifer more and more, he wanted more money, more time, more attention. And she would just give it to him. I got home one night and saw one of his stupid cars parked out front and I snapped. I was done. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to demand a divorce and get her out of here.” His voice begins to waver.

“I wanted to scare them, let them know they couldn’t push me around forever. So I dug out my mom’s old gun, this Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from the 70s. She kept it in a safe for ‘emergencies.’ I didn’t even know how to use it, but I didn’t plan to. I took it, and I stormed down to that fucking boathouse and went right through the front door, but it was only Jennifer there. I just missed Peter leaving.” He leans over for a moment, collecting himself.

“I went off, then. I told her how sick I was of everything and how I didn’t care what she tried to do, I wanted a divorce. And she was lying there, naked, smoking a joint, with this grin on her face. Like she didn’t have a care in the world. Nothing I said meant anything to her. She stood up, got dressed, pretended like I was just a bug on the wall, and then she turned around and told me that she would ruin me in a divorce, that our prenup gave her everything if our breakup was my fault because I had physically abused her or become a drug addict or committed a crime. And she told me all the ways she already had planned to frame me for any or all of those, how she would take over and ruin the Foundation, just to hurt me. I guess she’d been studying the prenup, preparing for this. And then she told me she was pregnant with Peter’s baby and planned to raise it as my heir, and I don’t know why, it was just…it was the last straw.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more angry in my life than I was in that moment. So I pointed the gun at her, I’d been hiding it until then, I pointed it at her just to scare her, to humanize her for a fucking second. I swear to you I had no intention of shooting her. But right after I pulled it out she lunged for it, like she’d known it was there all along. And I panicked, my whole body tensed up and I…” Derek rests his head in hands to draw in deep, jagged breaths. 

“And I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, that you should never have your finger anywhere near the trigger unless you’re about to pull it, and when I tensed up my finger twitched and – and that was it. I shot her straight through the chest.” He begins to sob into his hands. “There was so much blood. I’ve never seen so much blood.”

Stiles sits there, pressed into Derek’s side, feeling his body heave as he cries. He doesn’t know what to say. But his instincts were right; Derek’s not a murderer. Jennifer’s death was an accident. An avoidable and horrible accident, yes. Derek’s hands aren’t exactly clean. But Stiles doesn’t judge him for what happened.

Derek walks him through how he cleaned up the boathouse that night, carrying up pail after pail of lake water to wash the blood off the floor, how he’d bundled up anything else with blood on it and burned it later. How he’d carried her to the boat and sailed it to a deep spot and then drilled it full of holes, and gone back to shore with the emergency raft he’d found in the boathouse. He tells Stiles how terrified he was that someone, anyone, would see something. How could he ever explain? How could any cop or judge or jury ever believe he hadn’t murdered her in cold blood?

Derek smiles sadly. “It was always bound to come out, I knew that. I didn’t take the boat out far enough. It’s so deep there I didn’t think anyone would look, but…well, here we are. I found you, and it changed my life, and I started to believe, for the first time, that I could be happy – but it doesn’t even matter, does it? Because she wins. Jennifer wins, just like she knew she would. She was smiling when she died.”

“Listen,” Stiles insists, urgently. “Jennifer is dead and gone. We are here and alive and we are going to get through this. Do you get that?” 

Derek looks at him, hopeless, but nods slightly.

Stiles was born for these kinds of crisis situations and he’s more than ready to spring into action. “We need to be ready with an explanation. You say you identified the wrong body after she disappeared. That you were distraught when you saw the other body, it was too disfigured, you made a mistake. No one will think you’re lying about that.”

“Okay,” Derek says, “okay.” He takes a deep breath.

“You need to stay calm, Derek. Nobody knows what happened that night. Nobody except you and me. There’s no evidence against you specifically.”

Derek nods again, but he looks unconvinced. His face is streaked with tears and his eyes are wild, haunted.

“Hey.” Stiles gets down on the floor and crouches next to Derek, his hands on Derek’s knees. “You’ve got to believe me. This does not need to explode your life. You didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“What kind of fucking moron doesn’t even know when a gun doesn’t have a safety?”

Stiles cringes. “I’m not saying you were in peak form that night, buddy. You made some stupid—actually some downright negligent―decisions. But I think you can be excused for not being in your right mind after the abuse you’d taken from her for two years. Jesus, Derek, she fucking traumatized you, you know that, right?”

Derek’s eyes are almost completely green in the light of his room. He holds Stiles’ gaze for a long moment before looking away. They sit like that, quietly, for a while.

Eventually Stiles convinces Derek that he needs to take off his sodden clothes, and he walks him over to his bathroom, where he’s got one of those big room-style showers just like Stiles’. Stiles helps him get the clinging shirt and sweater over his head, gently touching the chilled, damp skin underneath. Derek peels his jeans down, grimacing as they resist, and then kicks them off into the corner. Stiles turns the shower on and perfects the temperature, then steps toward the door. Derek’s standing there in his black boxer-briefs, looking lost.

“The water’s ready for you. I’m going to give you some space, go wait for you out there. I can give Alice a call and see if-“

“No, Stiles, please,” Derek says. “Please just stay with me right now.”

“You mean, like…”

“Yes,” Derek says firmly. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and peels it down, past the burst of black hair and his soft, nestled cock.

His voice softens as he moves to get into the shower. “I just really want you close to me right now. Is that okay?” he asks, sincerely.

In response, Stiles pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it after Derek’s little pile. “I can handle that,” he says, hopping out of his pants and yanking off his socks. By the time he steps into the shower, Derek is already under the spray, head tilted back, eyes closed, as the water streams down the planes of his beautiful face. Stiles feels a swell of love for him, this man who has been through so much.

Derek hears Stiles get in and opens his eyes. He reaches out and pulls Stiles toward his chest, then shuffles them until they’re both under the water. Stiles hums with contentment and nestles in closer, one of Derek’s thighs slotted gently between his, his head resting on Derek’s shoulder as Derek smooths his hands up and down Stiles’ back. There’s nothing sexual about this moment, but the intimacy nearly overwhelms him, in a good way.

They stay like that for a while, the heat and ambient sound of the water smoothing away the jagged edges of the hellish last 24 hours. Right now, the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and that feels exactly right.

It feels right, too, when Derek stretches out for the soap sitting in its nook in the wall, lathers up his big hands, and runs them all over Stiles’ body, tender concentration on his face. Stiles rinses himself and returns the favor. They don’t speak, but they’re communicating. Each one is saying to the other: I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going away.

They towel off, and Stiles follows Derek to his bedroom. Derek has a towel wrapped around his waist, but he drapes it over a chair once he’s in his room, then pulls back the thick duvet covering his bed. He looks up at Stiles, who’s standing there, still wrapped in his own towel.

“Do you think we could just lie down for a bit?” Derek asks, softly. It’s not late and they haven’t eaten in who knows how long, but nothing in the world appeals to Stiles right now more than some hardcore snuggling. He takes off his own towel, flips off the lamp, and climbs in after Derek. It’s just barely gone dark outside, the room filled with a mellow half-light.

Derek is already on his side, head cushioned by a fluffy pillow. Stiles tucks up tightly behind him, the big spoon. They’re pressed together from shoulders down, Stiles’ knees folded into the space behind Derek’s, their calves and feet overlapping. Their skin is warm and slightly sticky from the shower. Stiles brushes Derek’s foot with one of his toes and Derek grunts into his pillow. “Don’t tickle my feet.”

Stiles chuckles and stills his feet. He wraps his arm tightly around Derek’s torso and noses the back of his head. He loves the way Derek’s hair smells, like clean sweat and apricots. He inhales deeply.

“Are you sniffing me?” Derek grumbles without moving.

“Mmmm hmmmm,” Stiles hums into Derek’s hair. “Not gonna stop anytime soon. Or maybe ever.”

Derek twists himself just enough so that he and Stiles can see each other. Very quietly, he says, “Stiles…I…I need you to know that.” He stops, hesitant. Stiles raises his eyebrows to encourage him to go on.

“I love you.”

Stiles swears his heart beats in double time; he hears his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s dizzy, and warm.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I love _you_, Derek. I really do.”

They move their faces together and kiss chastely; the angle’s too awkward for anything more. Derek shifts back to his original position and Stiles cuddles him even more tightly. For a while they lie just like that, the room falling darker around them as the minutes pass, until eventually there’s just the ghostly glow of moonlight.

The covers are pooled around their hips, upper bodies bare. Stiles flattens his hand out over Derek’s heart and feels the steady, slow beat beneath. It’s incredibly soothing. Derek is awake, but utterly relaxed.

Stiles sweeps his hand across Derek’s chest, grazing a nipple along the way. Derek moans, so quietly Stiles isn’t even sure it happened. So he traces his fingertip over the now-hard nipple again, and Derek makes another sound, arching his back.

“Do you like that?” he whispers into Derek’s ear, still drawing feather-light patterns on Derek’s body. He feels Derek nod. Stiles drags his fingers over the hill of Derek’s arm and down to Derek’s belly. He moves his fingertips in circles around Derek’s navel and Derek gasps, thrusting his hips.

They didn’t come to bed for this, but it’s like a spell has come over them and Stiles doesn’t want to break it. “Is it okay that I’m touching you?” he whispers.

“Mmm,” Derek nods, his eyes closed. “Feels good,” he whispers back.

Stiles keeps stroking Derek’s stomach in circles, as Derek’s breathing gets heavy and uneven. Stiles twists his fingers in the hairs that get thicker as he moves further down, tugging gently as Derek writhes. Slowly, so slowly, he slides his hand under the covers and wraps his long fingers around Derek’s velvety cock. Stiles doesn’t move, just holds his hand there, feeling that delicious contrast between the hard erection and the soft skin. Derek moans again and moves his hips. A suggestion.

Stiles starts to stroke him, just lightly. He squeezes the head of Derek’s dick with very little pressure, feeling the foreskin shift around the sensitive glans. Then he tightens his grip and focuses on that spot, sliding up and down, over and over, until Derek is full-on bucking his hips and making delicious noises. He’s thrusting his round, gorgeous ass against Stiles’ now very-interested cock, causing him to moan himself.

Stiles nuzzles into Derek’s neck, kissing him there as his hand drifts down to Derek’s balls, which he cups and tugs gently. He knows Derek likes that and is rewarded with another thrust back into his crotch. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he murmurs into Derek’s ear, moving his hand back up to start jerking Derek’s cock in earnest.

Derek whimpers at Stiles’ words, then groans deeply. His whole body is flushed with arousal, dewy sweat gathering on his temples.

“Stiles,” he says quietly, voice gone rough. “I want to feel you inside me.” And he takes the hand on his cock and guides it gently over the swell of his hip, and down to the bottom of his cheeks. “Please.”

They haven’t done this before. Stiles has never done this at all, and figured Derek just wasn’t into it since it had never come up. That blood-rushing-in-head feeling is back, as well as a surge of desire so strong it almost knocks him out. Just the thought of fucking into Derek makes pre-come flow out the tip of his cock onto the skin of Derek’s lower back.

“God, yes, Derek,” he gasps. “Yes. I’ve never…is it ok?” He’s not really coherent right now, but Derek understands him. “It’s okay,” Derek says, “I’ll show you.”

Derek has to pull away from their spooning to reach his bedside table. When he pulls out the drawer to grab a bottle of lube, Stiles sees an assortment of plugs and dildos he didn’t know were there. So this is something Derek likes, a lot, and he hasn’t felt like he could tell Stiles until now.

“Has anyone…” asks Stiles, again with the incomplete questions.

“No,” says Derek, blushing as he realizes Stiles saw the toys. He settles back against Stiles body. “Not another person, no. But I want you to.”

Stiles is pretty sure this is the biggest fucking honor he’s ever received, and he hopes desperately that he does right by it. He swallows. “Condom?”

Derek shakes his head. They’d exchanged test results a few weeks ago.

Derek squirts a glob of lube into his hand, then reaches around backward to grab hold of Stiles’ dick. He spreads the lube all over him, so much that it’s dripping down onto his balls, then guides Stiles down to his hole. He swipes the head of Stiles’ cock over his opening a few times, which feels so good Stiles thinks he might black out. Then he presses it to the entrance and takes his arm back, whispering “Just go slow.”

Stiles swallows and tries to remember how to breathe. He slides his hand over Derek’s hip and gives it a loving squeeze, then strokes it down his thigh. He slips his hand underneath Derek’s leg and lifts it up, and Derek tucks it into his chest, biting back a moan of anticipation.

Stiles lines himself up again and holds on tightly to Derek’s leg. “Just tell me if you want to stop. No matter what, okay?”

Derek nods and thrusts backward to give Stiles better access. Derek is still completely hard, his foreskin no longer visible as the red, swollen head oozes pre-come. “Please,” he begs.

Stiles pushes his dick a little, just gently so that Derek will relax and open up. Derek’s breathing heavily and his body resists, at first, but soon Stiles is sliding deeper and deeper inside him, overwhelmed by how hot he feels inside.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” Stiles chokes out. “God, you feel so good.” The pressure of Derek’s hole is so tight, and when he drags the tip of his cock in and out again it’s like nothing he’s ever felt.

Awestruck, Stiles watches Derek’s gorgeous cock bounce against his abdomen as he gets fucked. He watches himself sliding in and out, mesmerized by the sight and the wet, slick sound of it. They angle their bodies a little differently, Stiles crouched over Derek, Derek’s leg wrapped back around Stiles’ ass. The angle is different, and Derek groans loudly whenever Stiles drags against his prostate.

“Fuck, I need to kiss you,” Stiles breathes, rearranging them again so that he’s between Derek’s legs, and he hooks them over his shoulders. He plunges himself back into Derek’s ass, both of them crying out. Stiles leans in and kisses Derek deeply, feeling him moan into his mouth as he fucks him and strokes his cock, which is wet and slippery at the tip. 

Derek arches his back high. “God, Stiles. Fuck me harder. Please fuck me harder.”

And Stiles does, until he can’t bear it any longer and gasps, “Fuck, Derek, I’m gonna come.”

Derek locks eyes with him and groans. “Yes. Come inside me. I want you to come inside me. Fucking do it.”

That does it for Stiles, whose orgasm rips through him at Derek’s words, their eyes still locked. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” he cries, draping himself over Derek, panting, before pulling out.

He gives himself exactly ten seconds to recover before he’s sucking Derek hard, his finger back in Derek’s slippery ass, curved to rub that sensitive spot inside. It doesn’t take long at all before Derek’s spilling, too, and Stiles swallows it, moaning and squeezing Derek’s thigh with his left hand. He pulls off and rests his head right there, on Derek’s hip. 

Once they catch their breath, Stiles slides back up until they’re side by side and takes Derek’s face carefully in his hands. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “That was incredible.”

Derek kisses him, slowly and sweetly. He pulls back and rests his forehead against Stiles’, and the two men breathe each other in until they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy loss: Derek describes Jennifer having lost a pregnancy right after they married.
> 
> In the source book, Rebecca, the Derek character actually just plain-old murdered the wife out of rage. It was not accidental. You're supposed to still like him anyway because in Gothic literature you have pure heroes and villains or some shit. Well, I couldn't do that to my Derek. So he really didn't mean to!


	22. Chapter 22

They awaken, not much later, to the vibration of Derek’s cell phone. He ignores it, but the insistent caller tries again, and he pulls it to his ear with a gruff “What.” He sits up straight when he hears who’s calling.

“Officer, yes, hello. No, no, I don’t know who it could be. I, we all thought Jennifer was alone. A friend? No, not that I’m aware of. Yes. I understand. Yes, I guess I could have made a mistake back then, but I don’t know. No, sir.” Derek flicks his eyes to Stiles, somewhat frantic. Stiles mouths at him to stay calm.

“Okay, yes. Of course. I understand. Thank you, officer.”

Derek hangs up and tosses the phone away from him, then slumps against the back of the bed. Within seconds, the phone buzzes again. Groaning, he grabs for it.

“Hello? I’m sorry, excuse me, who? What? No, no, we don’t even know if it’s her boat yet, I have to identify it myself…I’m sorry? No, I don’t know.” He looks up helplessly at Stiles and whispers “media.”

Stiles yanks the phone from his ear and hits “End Call.” “No, Derek. No press. Fuck those assholes.”

“Ugggggggh,” Derek falls backward onto his pillow and covers his eyes. “Fuck me.”

“Well, I did already, but I suppose I could go again if you really want?”

Derek hits Stiles with his pillow, but he’s smiling, which was what Stiles was going for. Then the smile fades and his voice is tight as he asks, “What am I going to do?”

Stiles puts the pillow back behind Derek’s head. “I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure it out. I’m going to figure it out with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can we eat some fucking dinner, though? I’m starving. You really put me through the ringer here.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but agrees. “I know there’s leftover catering from the party down in the main kitchen. I can go grab something for us and bring it back.” He clambers over to his dresser to grab sweatpants and a tank top.

Stiles watches him dress with extreme fondness, and clearly has a dopey grin on his face because Derek snorts when he sees it and tosses some extra clothes at his face. “In case you don’t want to eat naked.”

“I would like to be perpetually naked with you, actually.”

A warm smile spreads across Derek’s face. He finishes getting dressed and then crawls back across the bed until he’s face to face with Stiles. “I love you,” he whispers, before kissing him. Stiles grabs his head to keep him in place when he tries to leave and Derek laughs into his mouth. Eventually Stiles lets him go, saying, “I love you, too, you ridiculously attractive asshole. Go get me food.” 

*****

Derek wakes Stiles the next morning, early, with a kiss on the forehead. “Don’t get up,” he says, “I have to meet the Sheriff’s deputies down at the lake; they’re pulling up the boat today to get a positive ID on it and…retrieve the body, I assume.”

Stiles blinks repeatedly as he comes to, trying to process. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asks groggily.

Derek shakes his head. “I think it would look a little weird for me to bring my boyfriend along.”

Stiles shifts until he’s on his back and rubs his eyes. He’s fully awake now. “Yeah, you’re right. Best to just go down there, identify the boat, act sad to be reminded of your loss, come back here. Just don’t say anything more than you have to, remember. You don’t know _anything_.”

“I know,” Derek replies in a low, shaky voice. “I’m fucking terrified, but I know what to do. I think.”

“Just please tell me you showered all my jizz off you.”

Derek swats his cheek, then rises to go. “I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You will.”

Derek leaves and Stiles lies in his bed for a while, trying to go back to sleep and failing. The previous day’s events, and everything he learned, make it impossible to relax. So much is so different than it was a day ago. Derek doesn’t love Jennifer, and never did. Derek loves him. Derek killed someone. Derek could get caught and go away forever. Each one of those things is enough to make his head explode, but combined? He may never sleep again.

It’s early enough still that he thinks he can slip back to his own apartment to shower and dress for work, but when he enters the foyer he sees Harris sitting glumly on the staircase, staring at the front door. His eyes flick over to Stiles when he hears him.

“The local newspaper just called the house line for Derek,” Harris says flatly. Odd that he doesn’t call him Mr. Hale, Stiles thinks.

“Oh?” Stiles asks, feigning ignorance.

Harris looks awful; he’s still in the clothes he was wearing during his confrontation with Stiles yesterday and the circles under his eyes are darker than usual. He’s not wearing any shoes, entirely unusual for someone as prim and proper as he always is.

“Why would they call here at this hour?” he asks Stiles.

“No clue,” Stiles shrugs. “Maybe they’re covering the ball?”

Harris scoffs. “Absurd. I think it was about Jennifer.”

Stiles swallows. “Huh?”

“Did you hear that they found her boat yesterday?” His eyes fix on Stiles.

“I haven’t heard anything about that.”

Harris clearly doesn’t believe him. “I heard the diver, he recognized her boat. And the Coast Guard knows.”

“Harris,” Stiles says impatiently. “I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to Derek.”

“Don’t you?” Harris asks slowly, after a pause. He gets up and leaves the foyer, disappearing into the kitchen area.

Stiles lets out a breath. He’s not scared of Harris anymore. Harris can’t hurt him. But if he decides to become Derek’s enemy? Stiles isn’t sure where that might lead. Nowhere good, for sure.

*****

Stiles can’t focus on his work at all that morning. Erica and Jackson are tiptoeing around him, not talking, probably assuming he’s still tied up in knots over the costume incident with Derek. Well, Stiles thinks, he is distraught about Derek, but not for the reason they think.

Deaton’s been out all morning, but returns just before lunchtime with Derek and a woman in a Shasta County Sheriff’s Department uniform. Deaton calls him into his office to join them.

“Who’s this?” the woman asks with raised eyebrows when Stiles knocks and enters.

“Deputy Green, this is Stiles Stilinski. He’s my legal assistant, and I’d like him to join us here to take notes, if that’s alright with you.”

She shrugs. “No problem.” She turns back to the other men. “Anyway, like I said earlier, what’s tricky is the previous misidentification of the body.”

Stiles settles into a chair in the corner, stealing one glance at Derek, who’s stone-faced. Good.

“I think it’s perfectly understandable,” Deaton tells the deputy, “under the circumstances. When Mr. Hale was contacted to go see the body they had already told him it might be her, so he went in expecting that. And he was extremely distraught at the time, not at all clear-headed. I tried to join him that day, but he refused. Plus, the state of that body…”

Derek nods to confirm Deaton’s story.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now,” Deputy Green says. “The ID got made, and it was wrong, so we have to correct that error. And although I wish we didn’t, we’ll have to conduct an investigation, that’s protocol.”

“Yes,” say Derek and Deaton both.

“I don’t think the whole thing will take too long, just need to have a statement from you, Mr. Hale, but I’m afraid the publicity is going to be unavoidable. I’m sorry you’ll have to go through that.”

“That’s all right,” Derek says.

“At least now we know her death must have been quick, not as drawn-out as we feared. Obviously she wasn’t struggling to swim out there.”

“Right.”

“I’m guessing something went wrong with the boat, she went down below to check it out, and some bad weather hit, with nobody at the helm. Terrible.”

_So they haven’t found the holes yet_, Stiles thinks with relief.

“I suppose so,” Derek says quietly.

“Do you think that’s what happened, Mr. Deaton?” the deputy asks.

“I do think that’s the most likely explanation, yes,” he says. Stiles watches Deaton cast a glance at Derek and the expression in his eyes is unmistakable. He knows. And Derek doesn’t know that he knows. Stiles breathes slowly to stay as calm as possible.

“What terrible luck,” the deputy says, shaking her head. “I must have seen her out on that boat a million times, she was such an expert. But timing is everything, and even the best of us make mistakes.”

“Unfortunately,” agrees Deaton. “And I do recall it getting quite stormy that night.”

They’re all silent for a moment, heads down. “Well then,” sighs the deputy. “I wish I could spare you this investigation, Mr. Hale, but we’ll do our best to keep it quiet. I hope it’s not too terrible for you.”

Derek thanks her, and he and Deaton see her out, Stiles nodding at her with a tight smile as she leaves. He doesn’t want her to get a good look at his face, too afraid of what she might see there.

When the men return without her, Deaton excuses himself for a conference call. Derek asks Stiles to go across the hall to have some lunch with him. Once they’re safely in his hallway, he says, “That wasn’t so bad.” He slumps against the wall.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say and just takes Derek’s hand, squeezing it.

“When they brought up the boat, they knew right away it was her, she had some very distinctive gold dental work in her molars. But there wasn’t any evidence of…what happened. No bullet wound in the bones, at least nothing visible to the naked eye. Must have passed through her ribs.” He shudders. “And the holes I drilled - I hid them under some movable panels that night, in a fit of paranoia I’m grateful for now.”

They walk to his little kitchen and Derek stops, turning to Stiles. “You know,” he says sadly. “I wouldn’t even care. I wouldn’t even care if they knew I killed her and locked me up and I rotted away forever. I deserve that. But you…” He brushes his fingers along Stiles’ cheekbone. “You don’t deserve any of this. I hate that you have to know all of this, have to love someone who could do something like I did.”

Stiles takes hold of the fingers on his face. “Derek.”

Derek goes on. “There’s this look in your eyes. Or I guess it’s something that used to be in your eyes that isn’t there anymore. There was something so hopeful, even innocent, about you, and that’s gone. I did that. I took that away from you, overnight.”

“No. You didn’t. I wasn’t some dainty little rose bud that you’ve now sullied before it could bloom. I’m a man, who has seen plenty of pain all by himself, who fucking hates someone he loves going through hell. But if the alternative is never knowing you, or not being with you? Fuck that. And stop worrying about me. Also, make me a sandwich.” He points at the kitchen.

Derek manages a smile. “Okay,” he says.

They’ll get through this, Stiles repeats to himself in his head. Over and over.


	23. Chapter 23

As promised, the story hits the media in a flash and Derek’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Eventually Deaton just has Derek’s calls routed to his own office number and he takes them on Derek’s behalf, as his representative. Stiles and Derek studiously avoid reading anything online, knowing it will only rattle them.

Of course, Stiles’ family and friends are not going to similarly abstain, and he gets dozens of texts within the first hour of an article getting posted on a semi-legitimate website. All variations on the theme of how he’s doing, what the fuck is going on, and what the deal with Derek’s dead wife is, anyway. He doesn’t really have answers for any of those questions, so he just sends back the emoji face with dashes for features.

His dad, though, he calls himself, once he’s back in his apartment after work.

“Stiles,” he answers, as if he expected the call.

“Hey, Dad,” he breathes with relief. Just hearing his dad’s voice right now is a comfort.

“What’s going on over there, kiddo?” Background sounds indicate he’s at the station.

“Well…you probably know as much as I do. They found a boat here, Derek’s wife’s boat, and it had a body in it. So it looks like Derek was wrong when he gave a positive ID on that other body all those years ago.”

“You said the other body’d been in the water a few months, yeah?”

“Well, they don’t know exactly because they no longer know who it was, but yeah, I think it was pretty messed up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a grief-stricken family member got confused about a decomposed body. But I gather it’s causing a real shitstorm up there?”

“Oh yeah, this is big news in this small town.” He doesn’t want to say too much, because if anybody can tell when he’s getting evasive, or veering right on into dishonesty, it’s his dad.

“Derek doing okay?”

Stiles has been keeping his dad mostly up to date on his budding relationship, and so far the Sheriff approves. He’s started asking Stiles to bring him for a visit, but one crisis at a time.

“I mean, it’s hard for him, of course. Having it all brought up again. And he’s getting hounded.”

His dad grunts sympathetically. He knows exactly how this sort of thing goes.

“Paper said they’re re-opening the investigation into the death, which makes sense. Hopefully they close that up quickly.”

“Yeah,” says Stiles.

“Well, I’m in the middle of it here, so I gotta run. Tell Derek I said to hang in there. And if he has any questions, about procedural stuff or anything, he’s free to call me.”

“Thanks, Dad,” says Stiles, touched.

After hanging up, Stiles goes back upstairs, changed into sweatpants, to find Derek. He finds him in close conversation with Deaton in the foyer. Deaton’s giving him a rundown on the calls he’s fielded that day, including several from Cora.

“She wanted to come over right away, but I told her to give you some space for a bit.”

Derek nods as he wordlessly beckons for Stiles to come stand beside him.

“I think you’re ready to start talking to people, but just remember what we went over,” Deaton tells Derek.

Impatiently, Derek says, “It’s fine, Deaton, I know what to do.”

“I know,” Deaton says, unruffled. “But we just want to get this all out of the way as swiftly and smoothly as possible.” He catches Stiles’ eye, and the younger man is more convinced than ever that Deaton knows the truth. 

“Deputy Green would like us to come down to the station tomorrow for you to give your formal statement. She’s fine with me accompanying you, even though you’re not entitled to an attorney when you haven’t been charged with anything. They’re really viewing this as a formality.”

Derek’s shoulders relax a little; Stiles can see Deaton notices.

“I’d like to go with you, too,” Stiles says. “I know they won’t let me in the room or anything, but I’m pretty comfortable in a sheriff’s station.” He grins, aiming for levity to wipe the frowns off the other men’s faces.

Derek looks like he’s about to tell Stiles to stay out of it, then appears to think better of it when he sees the determined gleam in Stiles’ eyes. “Fine,” he says simply.

Deaton raises his eyebrows at Derek, evidently surprised. “Well, Mr. Stilinski,” he says to Stiles, “as your supervisor I hereby approve you being out of the office tomorrow for this purpose.” He isn’t smiling, but there’s a sort of faint mist of mirth encircling him.

“Uh, thanks, boss,” Stiles says sheepishly.

*****

When they arrive at the station the next morning, it’s crowded and a bit chaotic; not much different from what Stiles is used to at his dad’s. 

Deputy Green spots them right away and looks both relieved and harried. She scurries over to greet them, then guides them toward a hallway in the back. Over her shoulder to Stiles she says, “Part of the legal team, yeah?” She looks quickly at Derek, too.

“Yes, he can come in,” Derek says in his very official voice. Stiles knows this is totally not standard procedure, but dammit, he wants to be in there, so he’s keeping his mouth shut.

Green opens a nondescript steel door and ushers them into a small room. There’s a table and a cluster of chairs; the men rearrange them until they’re seated in a semicircle around the deputy.

Deputy Green looks much more uncomfortable than she did the day before. “Mr. Hale, I’m afraid things have gotten a bit more complicated since we spoke last, and the investigation is going to have to be a bit more in-depth.” She smooths her hand over a manila folder on the table.

Eyes trained on the folder, Derek says, “Oh? Why is that?”

She opens the folder and spins it, to show the group copies of photographs the evidence unit had taken of the boat.

“We had the techs inspect the boat to figure out what happened to make it sink, and when they did the full inspection and moved some of the panels around they discovered these.” She points to some dark spots along the floor of the boat. “Somebody put holes in the bottom. On purpose.”

Stiles has been watching Derek since she opened the folder. He sees him flinch at her words, but it’s okay – it’s the flinch of a man who’s just found out his wife’s death wasn’t an accident. Not the flinch of a murderer who’s been caught. Hopefully that’s how the deputy saw it, anyway.

“What are you saying, Deputy?” he asks slowly, with obvious distress. _Good_, Stiles thinks, _so far so good_.

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out, Mr. Hale. It sure looks like your wife was killed, doesn’t it? That somebody sunk her boat, deliberately?”

Derek looks properly stunned. He is, of course, but not for the reason she assumes.

“I- I- I don’t know what to think, Deputy.”

“Did you know there were holes in the boat?”

“Of course not. No.”

“Do these spots, in the picture, do they jive with your recollections of the inside of the boat?”

“See,” Derek sighs. “That’s the thing. Jennifer was the one who sailed. Not me. I actually hate sailing, so the boat was hers and she always went out alone.” He shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“So this comes as a surprise to you?”

Derek’s eyes flash with anger. “I was pretty shocked to learn that the dead body I identified three years ago wasn’t my wife’s, and now you’re telling me that her boat was sunk deliberately? How could I not be shocked?”

Deaton reaches out and lays his hand on Derek’s arm. 

No, Derek, Stiles pleads in his mind. _Do not get your back up. Keep cool. You can do this._

“Mr. Hale has been through quite a lot these past few days, Deputy,” Deaton says in his ultra-calm voice. “I think it’s safe to say he’s quite shocked by all of this.”

“Listen, Mr. Hale,” she says, her voice softer. “I understand. And none of us wants to put you through this, okay? But we’ve got to do this investigation properly so that we can close it and move on. I still need to ask you a few more questions.”

“Yes, of course, sorry.” Derek folds his hands on the table and looks contrite. “Please go on.”

She continues to question him about the boat, asking who else had access to it (no one), the last time it was serviced (who knows), and whether or not the boat was always kept at the cove (it was). She confirms that, although there’s no official public access to the cove, a determined person could get there by walking the shoreline.

“Now, with these holes here, we have to assume the boat would have sunk pretty quickly. This isn’t something somebody could do a day before, three days before,” she states.

Derek remains quiet.

“So it seems these holes were made by someone who had already taken her out into the water, yeah?”

“It looks like it.”

“Doesn’t that seem like somebody wanted her dead?”

Derek rests his elbows on the table and drops his face into his hands. He takes a long breath and looks back up. Gravely, he says, “It seems that way.”

“Now, Mr. Hale, I apologize, and I wish I didn’t have to ask you this, but – was your relationship with Mrs. Hale a happy one?” 

Stiles swears that he and the other two men both go into brief cardiac arrest, though Green doesn’t seem to notice. The air in the room suddenly feels thick and hot. Adrenaline courses through Stiles. There’s so much riding on this moment. Too much.

Derek draws a long breath and looks at Green’s left hand. “You’re married?” She nods. “So you understand. Every marriage has its low points, its arguments, its problems. There were times we weren’t very happy, to be honest. But they were the exception. Overall we were very happily married. I think you can ask just about anybody in this town and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

Stiles says a quick internal thank-you for Jennifer’s elaborate con job.

Green nods, looking satisfied. “And what about anyone else? Did she have enemies?”

“I don’t know, really. She had a lot of friends in the city, in San Francisco, and I didn’t know most of them. We were happy, but we led independent lives a lot of the time – just part of me having a job where I travel constantly.” He frowns apologetically. “But she never mentioned anyone.”

Green goes on to ask for names of friends or acquaintances Derek does remember, for any information about Jennifer he can provide, and has him walk her through the timeline of the night she died. He tells her he came home from a work trip to an empty house and went to bed that night assuming she was in the boathouse. Deaton confirms he saw him come in that night and go straight to bed.

“Okay,” Green says. “I think we’re good here.”

Derek looks up in surprise. “That’s it?”

“Well, I may have more questions as the investigation goes on, but for now I think I’ve got what I need.”

Everybody rises from the uncomfortable chairs, metal legs dragging across the floor. Green leads them back out into the bullpen, which is a little less crowded. Which gives them a perfect view of Green’s next witnesses: Peter Hale and Adrian Harris.


	24. Chapter 24

Neither Derek nor Stiles goes back to work when they get home, though Deaton does (of course). Instead, they hole up in Stiles’ apartment, blearily watching TV shows as they nap off and on, twisted together on the couch. They haven’t discussed the interview at the station, because what is there to say? There’s nothing they can do right now but wait. And while Peter and Harris might want to make trouble for Derek, they don’t know what happened that night.

Hours later as it’s falling dark outside, Derek’s phone goes off. He jerks upright when he sees who’s calling.

“Hello, yes?”

Stiles can tell it’s Green on the other end. He can’t make out what she’s saying, but she’s talking a lot. Derek just keeps saying “Okay” and nodding like Green can see him. After several minutes he ends the call and just sits there.

“Derek? What is it? What did she say?”

Derek turns and looks at Stiles, a stunned look on his face. “Suicide. They’re calling it a suicide and closing the investigation.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

“What? Why? How? What did she say? Derek, tell me everything!”

That seems to break Derek from his spell. His shakes his head like he’s physically clearing it out.

“They said it looks like she’s the only one who could have done it, since I have an alibi and there are no other suspects. There’s no evidence, nothing. There’s too little to go on to pursue a murder case.”

“But what motive do they think she had to end her life?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think they care. It’s just the only plausible explanation.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

Stiles feels a million pounds lift off his body and he basically dissolves into Derek. “Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god. Oh my god.”

Derek rubs Stiles’ back. “I can’t believe it’s real. That it’s over.”

Stiles smiles into Derek’s chest. “Pretty sure it’s the best news I’ve ever gotten. Ever.”

Derek rubs his back some more, then curses. “Shit. I still have to go back there right now, though. I need to get the body from the coroner and transfer it to the funeral home.”

“What?” Stiles sit up. “You’re going to have a funeral for that bitch?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “First of all, no. We did that, back then. Second of all, I have to keep up the appearance of us being this happily married couple. And what would a husband do for a wife whose body he just discovered? He would put her in a nice coffin and bury her with the splendor she deserves.”

Stiles grimaces. “That sounds so macabre.”

“I’m sorry that our discussions about covering up a murder aren’t more suited to your delicate sensibilities,” Derek says wryly.

“Ugh,” Stiles groans. “You didn’t murder her, Derek. It was involuntary manslaughter, you would have gotten six months, tops. But since you can’t prove to anyone that it wasn’t homicide, it’s way too risky to confess. Please god never repeat a word of this to my father.”

Derek looks at him like he’s the stupidest person he’s ever met.

“Oh, right. You probably wouldn’t, huh?”

Derek ruffles Stiles’ hair as he stands up. “I’m in love with a dumbass.” When he gets to the door he stops and turns, a small smile on his face.

“Hey. You know – I’ve never been in love before.”

Stiles feels a tingle spread throughout his entire body.

“Me neither.”

*****

Stiles goes upstairs to do a little work, since he took the day off. He’s typing away when Alice tiptoes into his office, looking like she absolutely hates to disturb him. He beams at her to let her know it’s fine and pulls out his earbuds. He wants to beam at the whole world right now, actually.

“What’s up, Alice?”

“I was wondering if you knew when Mr. Hale would be back? Someone’s here to see him.” She twists her sleeve nervously.

“Not for a while, I don’t think, he had to go to the funeral home.” He says it somberly, and Alice’s face falls. She nods and begins to leave.

“Wait, Alice, who is it? Anyone I might know?”

“I’m not sure. It’s, well, it’s the other Mr. Hale, our Mr. Hale’s uncle. He’s in quite a state.” She lowers her voice to a scandalized whisper. “I think he’s drunk.”

_Oh hell no_, thinks Stiles, practically leaping up from his desk. “I know him,” he says, stretching the truth a bit, “I can talk to him.”

When they reach the foyer, Peter cackles with delight at the sight of Stiles. “Ah, the young sweetheart of my dear nephew!”

Wanting to rescue Alice, who is practically writhing with discomfort, Stiles leads Peter by the arm into the little study across the hall, the one with the big windows where Stiles talked to Derek after Peter’s last visit.

Shutting the door neatly behind him, Stiles drops his pleasant expression and crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.

“Derek’s not going to be back for a while.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll wait.”

Peter, who reeks of liquor, stumbles over to the huge mahogany desk in the center of the room, sliding into the leather swivel chair and kicking his feet up.

“Really coming down out there,” he says, nodding at the rain.

“Why are you here?” demands Stiles.

“Oh hush, little one,” Peter coos. “I just want to talk to my nephew. I’m not hurting anyone. Hell, this should be my house.” He fishes around in his pockets until he produces a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I definitely know you cannot smoke in here,” Stiles says.

“Like I said, supposed to be my house. My rules.” Peter lights up and holds eye contact with Stiles, victorious. He blows his first exhalation straight at Stiles, who just stares back at him.

Stiles knows Peter wants him to ask why it should be his house; he’s not biting.

“We both know Derek doesn’t want you here and he’s not going to talk to you when he gets back.”

Peter tsks and twirls in his chair. “Oh, he’s been telling tales about me, has he? I’m the big bad wolf, am I?” He grins.

Stiles doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at Peter with a stony expression.

“Oh, dear boy. It’s just not so. I’m just a regular guy, with excellent taste in motor vehicles. And I think you have been doing splendidly in all this, truly. You are to be commended.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows.

“You know, coming here, dealing with this nosy little town, putting up with mopey Derek and his mopey moods, letting all the villagers poke and prod you. I’m impressed.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“But for my part, I must tell you – it’s a bit of a shock. This whole mess with Jennifer. A bit of a shock indeed. I was damn fond of that woman.”

Stiles nods. Seems he won’t have to talk at all in this conversation.

“And what do you think Derek’s going to do about it, hmm? Now that the little farce they called an investigation is closed? Does he think he can just sit back and enjoy his riches and his little boyfriend like none of this ever happened?” Peter’s tone has gotten harder.

He taps his ashes onto the wool carpet, then drags deeply. He blows out a perfect plume of smoke and stares at Stiles.

“I will see that Jennifer gets justice. Suicide, my ass.”

Stiles’ blood runs cold and he forces himself not to react.

Peter stands up and approaches Stiles. “I know it wasn’t suicide. Don’t you? Don’t we?”

The door opens and Derek storms in, getting right up in Peter’s face. Peter just laughs.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“Oh, dear nephew! As a matter of fact, I came to congratulate you! On the results of the investigation. Bravo!” Peter can’t stand up very straight and slinks against the side of the desk.

“Get. Out. Now,” Derek growls. “Or I will throw you out myself.”

“Now, now,” Peter shakes his head and grinds out his cigarette on the floor. “You know I can make things very unpleasant for you, don’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” Derek’s confidence flags for a split second; Stiles hopes only he notices.

Peter sighs dramatically, then climbs back into the chair, leaning it back.

“Listen, between us girls, we all know Jennifer and I were lovers. Let’s not pretend we don’t.” He looks to Derek for confirmation, who simply glares back at his uncle.

“Yes, very well,” Peter goes on. “Until today, I thought my beloved had drowned somewhere out in the river, just like everybody else did. I thought it was a fitting end for her – she’d go out thrashing and fighting, like she lived!” He giggles. “And then I find out, no, she got trapped on her boat, right here. Terrible thing, but what can you do.”

For a moment Peter looks shaken, but it vanishes and his slick mask returns.

“So imagine my surprise when the good deputy shows me pictures of holes, drilled into the bottom of my girl’s boat. What do you have to say about those, Derek?”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to get into this with you, here, now? I’ve told the authorities everything there is to know. You are drunk, and you need to leave. I’ll get you a car; you’re not driving in this state.”

Derek pulls his phone out of his pocket but Peter swats it to the floor with a rough smack. “Not so fast. I bet you didn’t know about this text she sent me the night she died, do you?” He taps his own phone a few times, then flips the screen so Derek and Stiles can read it.

_I’ll be at the boathouse tonight – I’ll leave it unlocked for you. I’ve got something to tell you and I want to see you as soon as possible._

“Does that sound like the sort of text a woman sends right before she commits suicide, Derek?” Peter demands.

Peter sighs and looks guilty. “Just my luck I was, well, indisposed when she sent the message. Phone dead. By the time I powered up, it was the middle of the night and she wasn’t answering my calls.” He fixes Derek with a chilling gaze. “Because she was dead.”

Peter lights another cigarette; Stiles notices his hands have begun to shake. “Would have really mucked things up for you with the deputy if I’d shown her that, wouldn’t it?”

“Well?” Derek asks furiously. “Why don’t you just do it, then?” Stiles grabs his arm.

“Easy, easy, my boy. Listen, I know we’ve never been great friends - such a pity. But maybe we could come to some sort of agreement that would benefit us both? I’m not a rich man, despite my last name. Not anymore, anyway. For the right amount of money, say ten million? I could destroy this text, while you watch, and disappear from your life forever. It’s a win-win!”

“I’ve asked you already to leave this house,” Derek says, his voice trembling with rage. “I won’t ask you again.”

Peter laughs, but it’s weak.

“Do you think I’m scared of you, Peter? You’re wrong. I’ll call Deputy Green right now. She can come right over, see your text message for herself.”

Uncertainty flickers behind Peter’s eyes. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be locked up forever. Never see your sweetcheeks here again.” 

Derek picks his phone up off the floor and opens his call record to find Deputy Green’s number.

“Derek,” Stiles warns. “Don’t.”

Derek just blinks at Stiles and puts the call through. “Deputy Green? Hi, yes, Derek Hale. Yes, thanks. Listen, I hate to do this to you at this hour, but can you come to the house? There’s something I need you to see. Yes, I know, I’m sorry – no, I can’t do it over the phone. Okay. Thank you.” He slides the phone into his pocket. “She’s on her way.”

*****

The three sit, not talking, in the little study until Green arrives. Peter falls asleep at one point, his head draped over the desk. Derek and Stiles sit on the floor, up against the wall, watching the rain slide down the glass of the picture window.

They hear Green’s car pull up and all three jump up and scramble into the foyer. Derek opens the door before she can knock and she takes in the three anxious men, looking vaguely alarmed. “Okay, then,” she says, stepping in, “I’m here.”

Derek takes her coat. Peter squirms. Stiles just stands there, numb.

“Thanks for coming,” Derek says, sounding remarkably calm. He walks them all over to the parlor area of the Foundation.

“Not a problem,” Green responds, pulling out her notepad.

“Deputy, I believe you met my uncle, Peter Hale, earlier today?”

“Hello, Mr. Hale,” Green says politely.

“Well, Peter? Are you going to show her?”

Green furrows her brow as the two men glare at each other. Finally Peter pulls up the text message. He’s not looking anywhere near as confident as he was earlier; probably sobered up some, Stiles thinks. He definitely wasn’t prepared to have his bluff called.

Before handing her the phone, Peter says, “Look, Deputy. I’m not satisfied with the investigation into Jennifer’s death being closed so quickly.”

Green is having none of it. “And?” she asks dryly.

“And as the man who was going to become Jennifer Hale’s husband, I think I have a say in things.”

“Is that so?” she asks, looking at Derek curiously.

“First I’ve heard of it,” he says. Stiles can’t believe how relaxed he seems.

Green thinks for a moment. “Okay, Mr. Hale. What exactly is your issue with the results of the investigation? Do you have new evidence?”

Peter hesitates, then shows her the phone. “This is a text that Jennifer sent to me. See the date and time – the night she died. Read this and tell me if you think the woman who wrote this was about to kill herself.”

Green reads the message, her lips moving slightly. When she’s finished, she says, “Not on the face of it, no. But what, exactly, is she referring to?”

Peter huffs with frustration. “She was clearly inviting me to come to her, she was making arrangements with the intention of seeing me, and giving me news. She would need to be alive for that,” he snaps, voice rising at the end. His eyes bug out and he’s sweating. 

“Mr. Hale,” she says. “What exactly do you think happened to Mrs. Hale?” She’s good at her job, Stiles observes; Peter doesn’t ruffle her at all, even though he seems like he’s on the brink of a total meltdown.

“She was murdered!” he shouts. “She was murdered by him!” He jabs his finger into Derek’s chest, who merely steps backward, not reacting.

“She loved me, you know,” Peters says. He grins. “She was going to leave him and we were going to get married.” He snickers. “She said I was the love of her life.” He laughs a little harder, and Stiles wonders what’s so funny.

“Everybody thinks Derek is such a prize, but I’m the one she wanted! Me!” He stumbles down onto the floor and smiles up at the group from down there. “What will everyone think of you when they find out you’re a killer, Derek, huh? Huh?” His face goes serious for one second before he dissolves into a fit of hysterical laughter.


	25. Chapter 25

The laugh does Peter in. It’s so unhinged, so clearly not the laugh of a man with a clear mind, that Deputy Green doesn’t even think about taking him seriously.

“Is he drunk?” she asks.

“Quite,” says Stiles.

She nods, making a note on her pad.

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” screams Peter. “I’ll come to your station and talk to the Sheriff myself. Derek murdered Jennifer and he needs to pay!”

“Mr. Hale,” Green says almost serenely, “I questioned you earlier today, did I not? Why didn’t you show me this then if it’s so important?”

Peter stares at her and then bursts into another riot of laughter. “Why? Well, because I didn’t want to! I wanted to bring it here and show it to Derek first!”

“That’s why I called you,” Derek cuts in. “He came here with that and tried to extort me for ten million dollars. Since I have nothing to hide, obviously I wouldn’t agree.”

_Fuck, that is one cool customer_, marvels Stiles.

“Got it,” she says, nodding, making another note. To Peter she says, “Do you have any other proof to back up your accusation, Mr. Hale?”

He cackles maniacally. “What, like a bunch of holes drilled in the bottom of the boat?” Then he calms down. “Honestly, Deputy, who other than my nephew would have killed her?”

“Well,” says Green. “Thanks for this. I’ll be on my way.”

“Ohhhhh, I get it,” Peter says. “You’re going to coddle him right through this. Because everybody loves Derek, sweet, caring Derek! God, you’re a fool.” He flops backward onto a sofa and sighs with disgusted defeat.

“Of course,” Derek responds to the deputy, ignoring Peter. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Wait!” Peter pops up. “I’ll give you proof! I’ll prove that Derek killed Jennifer because she and I were together and he was jealous. The best kind of proof – a witness!” His eyes gleam with something like victory.

_Oh no_, thinks Stiles. _Oh no. He’s thinking of Meredith_. Meredith, who practically lives down on that shore, for some unknown reason, every damn day (and apparently night). Based on her prior conversations with Stiles, she knows exactly what happened to Jennifer. _Fuck, she might have even seen it herself._

Green cocks an eyebrow, waiting. Peter, who’s now a sweaty mess, yanks his fingers through his hair. He’s excited. “There’s a girl, totally out of her mind, she’s always down there at the cove. At night, too. I’ll bet she saw it. We can ask her.”

Derek says to Green, “He’s referring to my neighbor’s daughter, Meredith. She’s not ‘out of her mind.’ She’s just a little different, in terms of social interactions, communication. She does hang out down there quite a bit, I’ve always told her it was fine.” 

“Can we talk to her?” asks Green, seeming interested.

“Of course.” Derek gets his phone. “I have her parents’ number, I can ask them to bring her over.”

Green nods. And they wait again.

*****

Meredith is clearly terrified when her parents escort her in. Derek had explained to them that they needed to ask her a couple of questions, nothing too upsetting, and they were wary but cooperative.

“It’s okay, Meredith,” Derek says to her in his most soothing voice, guiding her to an empty chair. Her parents hover nearby. “We just have a question or two.”

She sits, eyes painfully wide as she takes in the assembled crowd.

“Well?” Peter says with an icy voice. “Recognize me?”

Meredith stares, unmoving. No glimmer of recognition crosses her face. She moves her head from side to side, very slowly.

“Don’t be a fucking moron,” Peter says. “You’ve seen me at the cottage at the cove. Mrs. Hale’s cottage. Plenty of times, no?”

“No,” Meredith says, surprisingly firmly.

“You liar!” he rages. “We caught you watching us through the window.” He moves like he’s going to lunge on her and Green restrains him easily. 

Once he’s settled back down, Green brushes herself off. “Convincing witness you’ve got,” she mutters.

“Oh, she’s full of shit,” he hisses. “Somebody’s gotten to her, paid her off.” He struggles for his wallet and then yanks out several hundred-dollar bills. He waves them at Meredith. “Ready to tell the truth now?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head again. “I’ve never seen him.” Looking at Derek, she asks, “Is the lady here to take me to Eichen House?”

“Of course not,” Derek says quickly. “No one is taking you anywhere.”

“To be clear, miss – you’ve never seen this man before?” Green asks.

“Never,” she answers.

“Do you remember Mrs. Hale?” she continues.

Meredith blinks. “She’s gone.”

“Yes, yes I know. Did you see her the night she went out on her boat and didn’t come back? Were you there?”

Meredith looks nervously at Derek, then Stiles. “What?”

“You were there, I knew it,” crows Peter. “You saw her go into the cottage, you saw Derek go in after her. What else did you see?”

Meredith shakes her head violently. “No, no. I never saw anything. I want to go home. I don’t want to go to Eichen House.” She starts to cry. Her mother moves closer and rests her hands on her shoulders protectively.

“You crazy bitch!” Peter screams. To Green, he says, “It’s a plot against me. They’re all in on it.”

“You can go home, Meredith, thank you very much,” Green says kindly to the girl. Derek walks her out, still crying.

“Well, Mr. Hale. We seem to still be short on evidence of your claims. You can’t even prove you were having an affair with her, let alone that her husband killed her.”

A slow, wicked look spreads across Peter’s face. “Can’t I, then?” he asks, smiling. He yanks out his phone.

“Harris,” Peter barks into the phone. “Come down to the Foundation parlor. Now.” He hangs up.

“Adrian Harris?” Green looks skeptical. “Doesn’t he oversee the estate here? I already spoke to him.”

“Yes,” Peter says impatiently. “But he was also close to Jennifer. And he’ll have a lot more to say then Meredith on this particular topic.”

Green sits back, content to wait for the next float in this parade. Stiles glances at Derek, whose composure is beginning to fray. _Hang on_, Stiles wills him, _just hang on_.

Harris walks in moments later, looking terrible. Stiles hasn’t seen him at all since their last conversation in the foyer. He’d heard that Harris took the news about Jennifer very hard and hasn’t been outside his own rooms. Right now he’s wearing limp, baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt with what looks like a soup stain. 

“Can I help you?” he asks no one in particular.

“Mr. Harris,” Green stands up and offers to shake his hand, which he does half-heartedly. “I’ve just come by with some more questions regarding Mrs. Hale.” 

Harris perks up a bit at that. “Oh?”

“Yes. So, Mr. Hale here, Peter Hale, that is – he claims that he and Mrs. Hale were having a relationship. Were you aware of that?”

Harris cocks his head. “I was aware that Peter is Derek’s uncle and that she was friendly with him for that reason…” He sounds confused.

“I meant something a little closer than that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Harris says stiffly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Adrian!” Peter throws his hands up in the hair. “Cut the crap. You know what she’s asking. I’ve told her already, but she doesn’t believe me. Tell her that Jennifer and I were together, for years. That we lived in the city half the time. That we were in love.” He looks desperate.

Stiles feels his heart stop beating. This is it. The beginning of the end.

But to his shock, Harris looks at Peter with something a lot like scorn. “You were not,” he says.

“Listen to me, you son of a bitch-“

Harris cuts him off. “She was not in love with you. Or with the other Mr. Hale. Or with any man. She hated all of you. She was above all that.”

“But you know she was with me, all the time. That we’d meet down there, in that boathouse.”

Harris shrugs. “What of it? She would get bored. And want to amuse herself. That’s all you were to her. I know; she told me. She used to laugh about you to me, for hours.”

The whole room goes silent. Derek’s face is ghastly white. And Harris begins to cry pitifully, just like he had that day upstairs when Stiles confronted him.

No one moves toward him or knows what to do. He goes on crying for several minutes, at least. Stiles and Derek keep trying to steal glances at each other, but don’t want to act suspiciously around Green. It’s killing Stiles that he and Derek have to be so separate in this process.

Green clears her throat, finally. “Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry, but – do you know of any reason Mrs. Hale would have had to take her own life?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “Absolutley not.”

“See?” demands Peter. No one pays any attention to him.

“Okay,” Green says, her mouth twisted in concentration. “Can I see the text again?” 

Peter hands her the phone, eyebrows raised hopefully.

“So we know she wrote this that night. We don’t know what it means. Perhaps Mr. Harris can shed some light on it.” She shows the message to Harris. He takes a long time looking at it, then shakes his head again. “No. I don’t know what it means. If there was something important she had to tell him, she would have told me first.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“So you didn’t see her that night?”

“No,” he hangs his head, sniffling, “I was out, and I will never forgive myself for it.”

“Mr. Hale,” Green says to Derek, “you said she was in San Francisco that day?”

He nods. “That’s what she told me, yes. I was out of town until the evening.”

“Any idea what she was doing there?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “none at all.”

“What the fuck does it matter? She didn’t kill herself!” Peter yells, to no one.

Harris looks up, his expression brighter. “I do have her iPad, with her calendar on it, still. In my rooms. I have all her things.”

Every person in the room gives him a weirded-out look. Without being told to, he flies out of the room to get the tablet. He’s back in a flash, to the relief of the extremely tense group. No one wants to be here right now.

“I was right,” Harris says excitedly, “she put everything in her calendar here.”

“How is that thing still charged?” Peter asks incredulously. Stiles shudders at the implication. Harris is so much creepier than he ever thought.

“It says here,” he says as he thrusts the iPad under Green’s nose, “2pm – Kali. Geary. That’s it.”

Green wrinkles her nose. “Not much to go on. Any idea what it means?”

Harris shakes his head, chewing his lower lip. Peter pulls out his phone, no doubt to Google the combination of Kali and Geary.

Stiles doesn’t want him to do that. Stiles has a very, very good idea of what he’s going to find. And he really doesn’t want him to. He digs his fingernails into his thighs until he swears they’re going to break through the fabric of his pants.

“Aha!” says Peter. “Here it is. Dr. Julia Kali, 2238 Geary St.”

Stiles and Derek look at each other, and close their eyes.

*****

“That’s ridiculous,” Harris says. “Jennifer never needed a doctor the entire time I knew her.”

“I’m sure she didn’t tell you everything,” Deputy Green says, not looking up from her notepad. She can’t see how Harris shoots her a death glare for that. “There could have been something going on with her she wanted to keep private.”

Derek’s picking at his left thumbnail, not saying anything. Stiles gives him a weak little smile of encouragement. He can swear there’s a look of goodbye in Derek’s eyes, and he looks away. He can’t deal with that right now.

“I think it’s reasonable to assume that her text message about needing to tell you something was connected to her seeing this doctor,” Green surmises. _Gosh, what a deduction_, Stiles thinks sarcastically.

“But what the hell could have been wrong with her?” asks Peter, flummoxed.

_How do they not know?_ Stiles thinks. _How have they not gotten there yet?_

“I’ve got some paperwork to get together, but I’ll get access to her medical records,” Green says as she prepares to leave. “I’ll keep you all updated as it pertains to the case.”

Derek sees her out, then walks back to the parlor, looking shell-shocked.

“Out,” he says to Peter with no inflection in his voice, not even looking at the man. Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t fight him.

“I’m staying in town,” he tells Derek as he ambles to the door. “I’m not going anywhere until this is figured out. Because I do know what you did, Derek, and I will see you pay for it.” His voice is pure, deadly hatred.

Derek sighs as he opens the door for Peter. Harris slips past the group soundlessly, back to his rooms. “Yes, Peter. Whatever you say.” 

He shuts the door behind Peter and he and Stiles stand alone in the foyer, not looking at one another. Derek moves slowly toward his own rooms and Stiles follows.

Once behind the locked door, Derek practically tackles Stiles into a tight embrace and they stand there clutching at each other, breath ragged. 

“What did you do, Derek?” Stiles whispers into his neck. 

“Stiles.” Derek pulls back, his eyes sad. “Peter’s a loose cannon. It would have come out, and this way I could get in front of it. It’s better this way, you know that.”

“But now…you know what that doctor’s going to say, don’t you?”

“It still won’t prove anything.”

Derek kisses Stiles’ cheek. “We need to talk to Deaton.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half of this one is NSFW!

Deaton is still closed up in his office, and was the entire time Green was there. He didn’t hear anything specific, but he knows something is up. He flips the lock on his door once Derek and Stiles are inside.

“What are we dealing with?” he asks, all business. He sits behind his desk and waits. The two younger men sit down across from him.

Derek looks down at his hands, laughs nervously. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Deaton looks at Stiles, then back at Derek. “I think I’ve got the basics already. I just need to know what we do next.”

“You don’t think I…that I did it on purpose, do you?”

“Derek,” Deaton sighs. “I’ve known you your whole life. I’ve seen you experience more loss in 30 years than ten people in ten lifetimes. I saw how she treated you those years you were married. And never, ever have I seen in you the propensity for violence. I don’t know how Jennifer ended up on that boat and I don’t need to know, because I know you. And right now all I care about is protecting you.”

Derek rubs his eyes roughly; he’s starting to cry. Stiles rests an anchoring hand on his leg and says, “You knew Peter and Jennifer were together?”

Deaton nods.

“When Peter found out about the holes in the boat he lost it. He got a text from her that night saying she had to see him, had important news to give him. So he knows it wasn’t suicide.

“Okay,” Deaton says, drawing a long breath.

“Peter tried to blackmail Derek to keep the text quiet, so Mr. Integrity over here immediately called the deputy over to show it to her himself.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“But it didn’t prove anything, and Peter made a drunken fool of himself,” Deaton puts together. Apparently Peter’s histrionics could be heard through the walls.

“Pretty much. But then Harris produced Jennifer’s iPad, which he has apparently been charging and playing with like the scary motherfucker he is, sidenote, and on her calendar it shows she went to see a doctor in San Francisco that day. So all signs point to that being related to her news.”

“Which you think was a pregnancy, by Peter.”

Stiles gapes at him. “Damn, how’d you do that? We didn’t even tell you that Jennifer told Derek she was pregnant!”

Unmoved, Deaton says, “I’m an excellent lawyer, Stiles.” He looks at Derek. “So the police will be getting a court order for the medical records, I presume?” Derek nods.

“You could get to them first, you know,” Deaton says. ”As the executor of her estate, you only need to produce certain documents to get access to her records immediately.”

“And then once he has all the details and knows the stage of the pregnancy at the time of death, etcetera, he could come up with a story to explain everything before the cops even find out?”

Deaton stares blankly at Stiles. “I would never _recommend_ my client do anything to break the law.” 

“Okay,” Derek says slowly. “If Stiles and I drive to the city right now, we can go see the doctor in the morning, first thing. Can you give me the documents I need?”

“Right away.”

*****

It’s well over a three-hour drive to the city, but Derek drives fast through the darkness. There’s no traffic at this hour, only a few other cars on the road. They don’t really talk for the whole trip, just hold hands over the gear console. How much longer will he have to hold Derek’s hand, Stiles wonders. He tries to commit the feeling to memory: Derek’s strong fingers, lightly dusted with hair, his warm palm, the way his thumb smooths back and forth over Stiles’ skin.

It’s after 1am when they pull up to the ornate hotel in Ghirardelli Square. The valet greets them and parks the car while they go through the revolving doors into the lobby, Derek carrying both their duffle bags over his shoulder. “Show off,” Stiles mutters, then grabs Derek’s hand and kisses it.

They check in at the front desk, the clerk extremely deferential once she hears Derek’s name. Stiles raises an eyebrow at him and he says defensively, “What? I come here a lot.”

They pass through the elegant lobby, up the stairs to the elevator, then down a quiet hallway to their room. The key card beeps softly and Stiles thinks with a pang that this is their first time on a proper trip. Not how he’d imagined the circumstances.

Their room exceeds whatever expectations he might have had, of course. It looks out over the glittering bay and has an enormous bathtub, surrounded by glass walls, in the middle of the room.

“Hell yeah!” Stiles says, jumping onto the pristinely made bed.

“You hungry?” Derek asks as he unzips his bag and takes out sweatpants and a tee shirt. 

“Well, I’m me, so yes.” Stiles reaches out for the leather-bound binder with the in-room dining options. “Ooooh,” he says. “We can get a sundae from the Ghirardelli Café!”

“For our dinner?” Derek asks with disdain. But then he shakes his head briskly and says, “You know what, yeah. Why not. We might as well have the best night we can.” He finishes changing while Stiles lies back and appreciates the graceful lines of Derek’s shifting body.

“Do we want the salted caramel brownie sundae or the marshmallow hot fudge sundae?” Stiles asks, with the gravity of a man asking another man whether he wants to save the life of one human being or another.

“Both?” 

Stiles gasps. “You magnificent bastard!”

At least Derek’s smiling again, for a minute. Stiles reaches out to pull him down onto the bed. “I love you,” he says.

Derek makes a pained sound and buries his face in Stiles’ chest. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” Stiles says, pulling Derek’s face up to look at him. “Stop. Shit happens, this is where we ended up. We’ll deal with it.”

“But…please don’t let this drag you down, too, if I end up going down. I deserve it. You don’t.”

“Stop making my choices for me. And stop being so negative.”

“Negative is kind of my thing, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs. “Not tonight, okay? Tonight can we eat ice cream until we feel sick, and take a bath together, and have mind-blowing sex? Reality can wait until tomorrow.”

And they do just that. They even manage to eat the ice cream in the bath, licking the traces from each other’s mouths when they’re done. Stiles sits on top of Derek in the deep tub, kissing him like it’s their first time, mapping him out and learning him. They kiss until their lips hurt, until Derek stands up, still holding Stiles in his arms, and carries him over to the bed. They’re dripping wet and the covers soak up the water until they have to yank them off and throw them onto the floor. Stiles takes that moment to get something from his bag.

He drops the bottle of lube on the bed and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. “I want to feel you, this time,” he whispers.

Derek kisses him hungrily and presses him back down into the bed. “Roll over,” he says, voice rough.

With a shiver, Stiles complies, then allows Derek to mold him how he wants him, on all fours. He drops his head to the bed and groans when he feels Derek’s soft beard brush his cheeks. Then Derek’s peppering his skin with little kisses, moving ever closer to his goal. Stiles clenches, suddenly self-conscious. “Relax,” Derek breathes into his skin, before licking right across Stiles’ hole with a flat tongue.

“Oh my god!” Stiles yelps. Derek chuckles, then licks him again. Stiles moans and lets go, lost in the feeling of Derek’s tongue now swirling its pointed tip around the edges of his hole and then inside him. He feels Derek’s own moans reverberate up through his body.

“I’ve been wanting to taste you for so long,” Derek says huskily.

Soon he hears the cap of the bottle and the sloppy sounds of Derek covering himself with the silky lube. Then there’s the head of Derek’s beautiful dick, brushing against his opening, back and forth. Stiles pushes back into it and Derek growls, grabbing Stiles’ hips and pushing in.

It burns; it feels impossible. But Derek doesn’t go any further, just uses his hands to rub up and down Stiles’ back, murmuring soft words. “You’re so gorgeous, Stiles. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Derek fucks him slowly while Stiles adjusts to the new, strange sensations. Soon the feeling of Derek’s dick in his ass has him moaning again, his own cock plumping back up. He’s played with himself before, this isn’t entirely new, but at the same time it feels pretty fucking momentous.

He reaches back and grabs Derek’s arm, stilling him. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, sounding stricken.

“Nothing, it’s good, so good – I just – can we try another position?”

Derek slides out of him, another weird and thrilling sensation. He sits back on his haunches and waits, nodding. Stiles drags him back up to the headboard and settles him against it, and Derek catches on. Once Derek is positioned well, Stiles straddles him and grabs hold of Derek’s cock.

“More lube?”

Derek scrambles for the bottle and then squeezes it over the top of himself. Stiles rubs it around, as Derek gasps, then carefully lowers himself down onto the wet cock. “Unnnnnnnfffff,” he moans, easing down until he’s flush with Derek’s groin. Derek clutches his ass cheeks hard, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” he groans.

Now that Stiles can control the pace and depth, he can focus on how good it feels to be filled up by Derek. To be this close to another person.

Derek starts to thrust upward into Stiles and Stiles chastises him, playfully. “I’m in charge, baby,” he says before leaning forward to kiss Derek.

“Always,” whispers Derek, gripping Stiles’ hips harder. They slide together in the new position, kissing when they aren’t making involuntary sounds of pleasure. It goes on and on and Stiles loses himself in the magic of their joined bodies.

Getting exhausted, and not sure his ass can take much more tonight, Stiles pulls off and sits back onto Derek’s hairy thighs, squirting more lube into his hand. Derek watches as Stiles slathers it onto his own cock and lies down on top of Derek. He wraps his slick hand around the both of them, thrusting his body forward with every stroke. Derek wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a sloppy kiss, his breath hitching with every rub of Stiles’ cock against his own. 

Stiles feels the tightness in his balls and knows he’s going to come soon. “Come with me, baby,” he says in a hushed voice between kisses, “I’m gonna come so hard.”

Wrapped around them both, Stiles can feel the subtle swelling in their dicks before they come, commits to memory the exquisite face Derek’s making, the sounds of their panting and moaning, the smell of their clean, post-bath sweat. His tongue deep in Derek’s mouth, his orgasm explodes as Derek cries out and Stiles feels the warmth of their mingled come spreading all over his fingers.

They thrust into each other lazily, still kissing, as their dicks stop pulsing into the mess on Derek’s stomach. Stiles gives Derek a quick peck on the lips and then hops up to get a towel. He comes back to clean them up, then turns off the lights and pulls the blankets still left on the bed over them. He and Derek face each other, Stiles brushing some stray hairs off Derek’s forehead.

“I’m in this with you,” he promises. “No matter what.”

Derek just smiles, but he’s looking a little less lost. 

“I can’t say you won’t regret that, but I can say that I’m really, really fucking glad.”

Stiles smiles back at him. “Good.”


	27. Chapter 27

The sun rises much too early after their hedonistic evening, but Stiles is grateful to look out the window and not see rain for once. The sailboats dotting the blue water of the bay make him smile.

The doctor’s office opens at ten, so they take their time showering, getting dressed. Derek orders eggs and coffee (and pancakes for Stiles) up to the room. Stiles doesn’t think either of them is ready to be around the rest of the world until they have to be.

They have time to walk the distance from the hotel, so they do, admiring the unfamiliar bustle of the city. Stiles has never actually lived in a big city. He’d always expected he would, and he remembers why, now, feeling exhilarated by the energy and activity in every direction. Three different places to get espresso on one block!

Derek holds his hand and watches him with a smile. For a minute Stiles can pretend that they’re just a normal couple, out and about for the day. Maybe having oysters and champagne on the water later, maybe going to the opera or some gritty bar to listen to a band only the cool kids know about. He can pretend he’s just another 23-yr old guy with a hot boyfriend and a long, unmarked future.

But it’s just pretend.

They find the building and drift through the bland lobby, ride the elevator up one level. Dr. Kali’s practice, which includes a long roster of other doctors and is apparently called the “Bay Women’s Medical Group,” is right there when the elevator doors open.

Stiles takes a firm hold of Derek’s elbow as they enter the waiting room. Two women are hunched over their phones in upholstered chairs and very quiet music plays somewhere. A woman with way too much eyeliner greets them suspiciously. “Can I help you gentleman?”

Derek walks up to the counter she’s behind and flashes one of his panty-dropping dimpled smiles. Stiles swears her eyelashes actually flutter in response. He can’t blame her; she’s only human.

“Yes, I hope so. My late wife was a patient of Dr. Kali’s, and I was hoping to take a look at her file.”

“And do you have the necessary documents to do that?”

Derek pulls a manila envelope out of his bag and hands them over to her. She scrutinizes them, then tells him she’ll let Dr. Kali know he’s there.

They settle onto the two nearest chairs, Stiles’ knee bobbing up and down as he chews on his thumbnail. Derek gives him an exasperated but fond look, stopping the movement of his leg and gently knocking his hand away from his mouth. Stiles takes a deep breath.

They don’t have to wait long. The receptionist calls them back and leads them down a hallway to an empty doctor’s office. They settle onto the chairs across from a huge desk, eyes scanning the degrees on the wall and the city view.

A tall, statuesque woman with golden skin and long, black hair enters the office briskly and closes the door.

“Gentlemen,” she says as she sits down. “What can I do for you?”

“Doctor, thank you for your time. I was hoping to get some information about my late wife, who I believe was a patient of yours.”

“Well, I don’t know where your wife transferred her care after she left my practice, so if you’re trying to put together a comprehensive file I obviously won’t be your only stop.”

“What?” Derek looks puzzled.

“Don’t tell me she refused treatment,” the doctor says, aghast. “Her pain must have been intolerable.”

“I’m sorry.” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think you might have Jennifer mixed up with someone else. My wife died the night after she saw you last.”

The doctor’s eyes widen and she sits back. “Oh.”

“And I don’t actually know what happened that day she was here. I didn’t see her after her appointment. So that’s why I’m here.”

“Of course,” Dr. Kali says, “I think I understand now.”

“Great.”

“Mr. Hale, I’m sorry you didn’t have this information. I’m very surprised your wife hadn’t told you anything about her condition.”

“What condition? Her pregnancy?”

“Pregnancy?” Dr. Kali looks extremely confused. “No, I’m talking about her cancer.”

Derek looks like he’s been slapped, hard.

“She had been seeing me for some time to determine what was causing a variety of symptoms; I’m sure you knew she wasn’t feeling well?”

Derek shakes his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t know my wife very well, Doctor.”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “Perhaps she didn’t want to burden you. She had a variety of complaints, and we didn’t suspect cancer at first because she was so young. But ultimately we determined it was ovarian cancer. I had gotten back the results of the staging on the day I saw her last. I wanted her to be here, in person, when I told her that her cancer was so far progressed as to not be treatable except for palliative care. I had to tell her that she had very little time left, three months at the most.”

“On top of the pregnancy,” Derek says, after he’s recovered his powers of speech.

“Mr. Hale, I can assure you your wife was not pregnant. She’d had an emergency hysterectomy in her early 20s. She was not capable of becoming pregnant.”

Stiles never wants to see the look on Derek’s face ever again. All at once it conveys disbelief, shock, grief, and betrayal. 

“May I.” He swallows. “May I take her file with me? Some questions have arisen around her death and I would like to share this information with the authorities.”

“Yes, certainly, we’ll just make a copy for our records. Wendy will meet you out front with the original.”

Dr. Kali stands up and offers Derek her hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Hale.”

He shakes it and thanks her, and he and Stiles walk back to the waiting room in a fog.

“Did that just happen?” Stiles asks.

“I have no idea,” says Derek.

*****

Derek calls Deputy Green immediately and uses a scanning app on his phone to send her the records. The deputy tells him that they’ll still obtain the records themselves through official channels, but that the information Derek’s shared displays a pretty good motive for suicide. “I’d consider this matter closed,” she tells him, “and I’m sorry for all you’ve gone through in the last few days.”

He thanks her and hangs up. He hugs Stiles for a long time, right there in front of the elevator. Stiles feels so relieved he cries a little, and Derek teases him and kisses his nose.

When they come out of the elevator downstairs, Peter is walking into the building.

“I knew it!” Peter cries, pointing his finger at Derek. “Come to destroy the evidence? I knew it as soon as Harris told me you’d gone to the city.”

“Peter,” Derek says. “Just sit.” He motions to a bench in the lobby. Peter regards him suspiciously, but sits down. Derek hands the folder containing Jennifer’s file to him.

Peter reads, and re-reads, and looks up at Derek. “What is this?”

“She was dying, Peter,” Derek says. He sounds almost sympathetic. “She wasn’t pregnant, she couldn’t have been. She wanted to die that night, not waste away in pain. Would you have wanted that for her?”

Peter narrows his eyes. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, you know that? None of this changes the fact that I know you killed her. I know it. I’ll always know.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Kind of like how I’ll always know that you killed my family, and tried and failed to kill my sister and me, so you could have your sister’s money? Didn’t work out as you’d planned, huh? Tell me, why didn’t you ever try to finish the job?”

Peter blanches and leans back. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“I guess that was probably part of your ever-after plan with Jennifer? I hope you’re not stupid enough to think she wouldn’t have taken my money and left you high and dry somewhere after you’d finished me off. Jesus Christ, Peter,” he spits in disgust. “Just please get out of my fucking life, forever.”

Derek grabs Stiles and makes for the door, muttering to himself in anger.

“Um, hi?” squeaks Stiles as they step outside. “Were you ever going to tell me that your uncle killed your family?”

Derek sighs heavily and leans into Stiles. “I didn’t know for sure until just now.”

*****

They decide to take the day and try to enjoy themselves, for once. They’re already in the city, so it’s easy to extend their room stay and make some plans. The best part is that Stiles manages to make his oysters and champagne on the water dream come true, after all.

It’s late in the day, the sun beginning to set, and they’re seated at a cozy table on the patio of the oyster bar. Derek ordered them the best champagne on the menu and he’s just flagged down the waiter for another bottle. Stiles feels giddy from the alcohol, from the day, for the future. This might be a perfect moment.

“Do you think Peter will really ever leave you alone?”

“Nah.” Derek sips his champagne. “I might have Deaton arrange something. Like an allowance in exchange for a restraining order.”

Stiles is horrified. “You’ll let him blackmail you now, after everything?”

Derek squints into the setting sun; its light glints off the coal black of his beard. “I don’t see that as blackmail. I see it as paying for the luxury of peace. And I don’t care about my money, anyway.” He looks at Stiles. “Do you?”

Stiles smiles at the vulnerability in Derek’s eyes. “Derek, drinking top shelf booze and staying at crazy hotels with you is fun, no doubt about it. But I’ve never been rich in my life and honestly never wanted to be. It’s not something I dreamed about, you know? I dreamed about having a job where I could help people, use whatever skills I have. And I dreamed about falling in love, having a family. That’s all. If you want to give all your money away tomorrow, I don’t give a flying fuck.” 

He raises his glass, and a blushing Derek clinks his against it.

After a moment, Derek says, “I keep thinking about two things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One, how she wasn’t really pregnant when we got married, that she knew she wasn’t, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But she did it just because she knew I’d marry her for it. And then she pretended to lose our child, my child, after four months of me living for pretty much only that.”

“It’s cruel,” Stiles agrees.

“Why did she even want to marry me? I guess the money. But Jesus, she could have fleeced me without ripping my heart out for two straight years.”

Stiles nods, putting his hand over Derek’s.

“And the other thing. I think she intended for me to kill her. She asked Peter to come to her that night because she knew I’d be getting home around then, and I’d see Peter, and I would snap. She probably had something planned to goad me into it once I got down there. But I made it even easier than she’d hoped.”

“Derek.”

“That’s why she was smiling when I shot her, I think.”

Stiles gets up from the table and goes around to Derek’s side. He sits in Derek’s lap and kisses him.

“My love, it’s over. She’s gone, and you’re free, and we’re free. And she doesn’t get to linger and poison anything if you refuse to let her.”

Derek rubs his nose against Stiles’. “I know. Hey, did I ever tell you why I fell for you, back in Palm Springs?”

“Uhhhh, my super-hot bod, obviously?”

“Oh, it’s hot, all right,” Derek says in a low voice, sliding his hand up Stiles’ leg. “But that wasn’t the first thing that grabbed me, no.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

“It was how smart you are. Your brain, it’s lightening fast. You don’t miss a thing. I have a real brainiac kink, you should know.”

“Wait, you got all that from me falling out of my chair?”

Derek laughs at the memory. “It’s kind of just an aura all around you.” He squeezes him. “You’re magic, Stiles.”

They kiss as the sun dips below the water and it’s so cheesy Stiles thinks he might die of happiness.

*****

Walking back to the hotel, Derek gets a call from Deaton. They’d spoken briefly, earlier, so he could give Deaton the news. “Must be some loose ends to tie up,” he says to Stiles before he answers. “Hey Deaton.”

Derek stops walking. “Really?”

He listens, his brows drawing closer and closer together.

“Okay. Well, thanks.” He hangs up and looks at Stiles, brow still furrowed.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks.

“Harris is gone.”

“What?”

“Like, totally gone. Leo saw him carrying boxes out to his car earlier today, then didn’t see him again. He wouldn’t answer his door and eventually Alice used the master key to go in, and it was empty. He left.”

“Jesus. What a weirdo.”

Derek’s lost in thought.

“Isn’t this a good thing, though? You said you’d wanted him gone for a while now. And I certainly won’t miss him.”

“No,” Derek says. “Something’s off. I know it.”

“Are you worried he’ll go say something to Green? He doesn’t have anything, you know that.”

“No, that isn’t it. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Gut feeling?”

Derek nods.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll never tell you to ignore one of those. I guess this means no more sundae-hot-tub-big-dick-magic for me tonight?”

Derek exhales with relief. “Thank you. I don’t know why, but I need to get back. That place…it’s like a part of me, you know?”

“No, but I love you, and I trust you, so let’s get this show on the road.”

*****

They talk more on the ride home, the mood definitely lighter than last night, even if Derek is a little tense. He keeps tapping the steering wheel and changing the music every two minutes. Once in a while he says it’s all probably nothing and Stiles hopes he’s right. They’ve been through quite enough.

In fact, Stiles spends the first half of the drive thinking about the future with excitement. About waking up tomorrow at Hale House to go to a job he likes, with people he likes, not needing to avoid Harris, not worrying about Jennifer. Knowing Derek loves him. And it will be the holidays soon; maybe his dad could come up for Christmas. Hale House is probably spectacular at Christmas. He pictures twinkling lights all over the Victorian house’s gingerbread trim, and an enormous feast with a roast goose. He’s never had roast goose, but he feels like a truly storybook Christmas features a roast goose.

For the second half of the drive, he sleeps, face smashed against his wadded-up hoodie on the window. He dreams of Harris’s pinched face, Meredith quivering before the deputy, Peter’s drunken tirade, the incessant rain. When he wakes with a start, Derek tells him to go back to sleep, but he pulls himself up and shakes it off. “Weird dreams. Not pleasant. Much rather stay up with you.”

Derek smirks and Stiles fiddles with the music. The windows are down now that they’re on the slow mountain roads, and it’s clear and dry outside. Stiles breathes in that smoky scent of autumn with relish.

“Don’t you love the smell of fall?”

“What, like, pumpkin spice?”

“No! Like, that burning leaves smell. That smoky smell.”

Derek frowns. “I’ve never noticed that before. That’s not how fall smells.”

Stiles sniffs exaggeratedly. “It so is. Don’t you smell it right now?”

Derek leans toward his open window and breathes in deeply. “Yeah, actually.” He sounds worried.

“Surprised it’s so intense when it wasn’t here yesterday.”

“That’s because fall doesn’t smell smoky to normal people, you weirdo.” He accelerates the car. They’re not far from home now.

“What do you mean? You just said you smelled it, too!”

“I mean it’s not fall you’re smelling. It’s a fire.”

And as they turn at the copse of apple trees, the scent intensifying, Stiles sees the smoke in the distance, no longer blocked by trees. It engulfs the sky.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. Derek drives even faster.

When they break through to the clearing, where Stiles got his first glance of the beautiful Hale House just a few months ago, they can’t see much for the smoke. It’s everywhere now. They cover their mouths and cough and Stiles urges him to turn around. He’s dialing 911 when he hears the sirens, already almost at the house. 

Derek’s staring straight ahead, where huge licks of flame are tearing through the walls. Then he springs into action, parking the car and jumping out, running toward the house.

“Derek!” Stiles screams, going after him. “Stop!”

Derek does, probably because he realizes he can’t even try to go inside. Through the blasted windows they can see walls falling while little flames become bigger ones and big ones become enormous. Stiles grabs Derek, to keep him upright as much as comfort him.

“What if they’re inside?” Derek says. It’s a weekday, so the house would have been full of more people than usual. As if he’s telepathic (_heck, he might be_, thinks Stiles), Deaton appears at their side and says, out of breath, “Don’t worry, no one is inside. Everybody got out.” He points to a small crowd huddled about 100 feet to the right of the house, past the parking lot. Erica waves weakly with a heavy frown.

Derek exhales heavily with relief, then wraps Deaton into an embrace. Deaton murmurs something comforting into his ear and Derek lets out a choked sob.

When they pull apart, Derek wipes at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. The fire trucks arrive. Firefighters descend and charge toward the house.

Stiles tugs on Derek’s arm. “Let’s go stand with the others,” he says. Derek nods and follows him. 

A firefighter encourages them all to leave. “It’s not safe here right now,” he shouts. Most people scurry off at that, but Derek stays put, as Stiles expected. They sit down on a patch of grass and watch as pieces of the house buckle and cave in, one after another. Deaton paces nearby, on a series of calls.

The firefighters blast the house with thousands of gallons of water, turning walls of brilliant orange into jagged peaks of charcoal. It feels like forever before the men snuff out the last flame. What’s left is a gnarled mass of smoking wreckage, and the stricken look on Derek’s face.

Derek answers his phone. “Cora.”

He tells her not to come over, that it isn’t safe and she doesn’t want to see this anyway. The call seems to pull him from his trance and he calls Deputy Green. He tells her that his house has burned down, and he’s pretty sure they need to be looking for Harris. He hangs up and leans his head on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Why would he do this?” he says, maybe to Stiles, maybe to himself. Stiles doesn’t care why Harris did it; he just hates the man and hopes he’s stupid enough to get caught, and quickly.

“This was all I had left of them,” Derek says. “I stayed in this town, all these years, because I needed to hold on to something that was theirs. Now it’s all gone. Everything is gone.” 

“Not everything,” Stiles says, pulling Derek close. “You’re part of them, and you’re still here, and you have a whole life left ahead of you. And you’re going to honor them by living the shit out of it.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes.

“Yeah. And I’m gonna help.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue! It is TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, you've been warned. I couldn't resist.

They don’t go back to Beacon Hills; they can’t. Maybe one day Derek will decide to rebuild on the property, but he’s not in a rush. It wasn’t the town he stuck around for, anyway. With the final traces of his lost family gone, what’s the point of staying?

Thankfully all the Foundation’s files are kept in the digital cloud, so it doesn’t take long to get back up and running. Everyone works virtually now. Deaton’s still in Beacon Hills, but Derek and Stiles just hit the road. They drive from one city to the next, staying a while if they like a place. There’s wifi everywhere, so they can always work when they need to. And they can fold Derek’s work travels into their wandering. 

They stop in Austin for six months and contemplate staying. But then Stiles gets the urge to see New Orleans, so they go there. Then the Florida Keys, D.C., New York, Maine. They Airbnb a converted barn in Vermont for three weeks and take a cheesemaking class. Sometimes Derek surprises Stiles by secretly flying Scott or his Dad out to wherever they are, and they show them whatever fun things they’ve discovered and stay up late drinking beer and telling stories. Eventually they’ll settle somewhere when Stiles picks a law school (he got into 11) and buy a little house, something not much bigger than Stiles’ apartment at Hale House. They’ll get a shelter dog with expressive eyebrows so Stiles can compare it to Derek and start their Christmas ornament collection.

Derek is softer, now. He’s much less reserved and wears basketball shorts more often than proper pants. He laughs, all the time, and eats whatever he wants. At a state fair in Wisconsin he eats three funnel cakes in one sitting. He learns how to bake and wakes up early on Sunday mornings to make cinnamon rolls. Sometimes he lets his beard get really full and Stiles can spend whole evenings running his fingers through it while they’re sprawled on the sofa watching Veronica Mars.

Harris got caught and convicted for arson, so he’s in prison somewhere now. He probably spends his days drawing portraits of Jennifer and creeping out the other inmates. Derek says he forgives him because it’s too much work to carry a grudge; Stiles tells him that’s stupid and then loves him a little bit more for it. 

*****

Stiles wakes up to a pounding on his door and buries his head under the pillow.

“Go away, Cora!” he yells into the mattress, then moans at the stabbing pain in his skull. “You did this to me, you vixen!”

“I can hear you bitching but I can’t make out the words,” she yells. “Just let me in.”

He sits up, grumbling, and checks to make sure he’s decent. Looks like he went to bed in his boxers; Cora can deal.

“Why,” he says as he opens the door to her grinning face. She’s showered and dressed and looking fresh as a baby chick and he hates her. Was she at the same party he was last night?

“Eek!” she screams at something she sees down the hall. She jumps into his room, pulling the door shut. “Phew, close one! Derek almost walked by and saw you!”

Stiles squints. “Are we really doing all that?”

“Excuse me, the groom does not get to see the groom before the wedding, nuh uh.”

“Cora, your brother and I have been fucking for over five years, I’m not some virgin his father traded two sows for.” He crawls back into his bed and she joins him, sitting on top of the covers.

“There’s coffee downstairs,” she says. “Don’t you want to get your big day started?”

“Wait, I’m confused. What happened to ‘the groom mustn’t see the groom?’ Isn’t your brother out there?”

“No, I think he was just going to his room to grab something. He’s giving your dad a surf lesson.”

“Ugh,” Stiles groans. “They need to stop it with their adorable macho sports bonding. I like sports, too! Why are they always leaving me out?”

“Aw, come on, almost brother-in-law. You know how much he loves having a dad figure again.”

That warms all the nooks and crannies of Stiles’ grumpy morning heart. “Fiiiiiine,” he sighs. 

He clambers downstairs with his future sister to the sprawling kitchen in the house Derek rented on the north shore of Kauai. The whole crew has been staying here for the last week, but starting tonight it will be just Stiles and Derek’s for another month. He can’t wait.

Cora and Stiles drink Kona coffee and eat the macadamia nut shortbread Derek made that morning while they run through all the last-minute wedding details. It’s a small affair, fortunately, so there’s not too much to discuss.

“Hey, stupid,” Cora says with a grin after a lull in the conversation.

“Yes, my queen?”

“I’m glad you found my brother. He’s finally alive again. You did that.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t take the credit. Your brother’s an incredible person who spent too long living a lie. He’s free now, and I didn’t do that.”

“Whatever,” she says. “You’re wrong, but fine.” She rummages through the purse she left on the counter and produces a yellow envelope, addressed simply to “LOSERS.”

“Oh, you really do care!” Stiles coos.

“It’s your wedding gift. Well, for both of you. So don’t open it until you’re together. And, like, married.”

“You’re handing me a present and telling me not to open it for 12 hours?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

*****

The ceremony and reception go perfectly. Which means, of course, that Scott loses the rings, Cora cusses out a waiter, Isaac fumbles his toast, Erica catcalls so loudly during the vows that the videographer has to ask them to redo them, and Scott and Allison’s two-year old, Lila, bursts into wailing tears when she’s supposed to do her flower girl bit. Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way.

Later that night, after half the guests have already filtered out, Lydia sidles up next to Stiles. He’s standing perched by the table of desserts, watching Derek dance with Lila. It’s the cutest fucking thing on the planet.

“So,” she says coolly, arms crossed over her Gucci couture. “You landed the guy.”

“I did.” Derek catches his eye and grins as he spins Lila in the air to “Sweet Caroline.”

“The guy you dragged, kicking and screaming, into my bar when you were an unemployed baby man.”

“Excuse me!” 

“Care to deny it?”

Stiles keeps watching his beautiful husband and smiles. He’s smiled so much tonight his face actually hurts. “Nope. You’re not wrong. And you know, I think that night in your bar might have been a crucial moment in our relationship. When we were super drunk he told me my eyelashes were pretty and I almost creamed my pants.”

Lydia shoves a lilikoi custard tart into his mouth and walks away.

*****

It isn’t until after their second round of extremely athletic married sex that Stiles remembers Cora’s gift. “Oh!” he shouts, leaping off the bed and going to find it.

“You’re walking naked through a house made of windows,” Derek yells after him.

“It’s my wedding night, I’m feeling very generous,” he replies. He finds the card and brings it back to bed. They settle in together and Stiles opens the yellow envelope, pulling out the piece of paper inside.

A picture of a carton of eggs, with “If you want them” scribbled underneath in Sharpie.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Stiles asks, looking at Derek.

Derek’s eyes fill as he smiles. “Yeah. It does. She’s offering us her eggs.”

Stiles gasps. “We could make a Hale-Stilinski!”

“We _are_ Hale-Stilinskis, as of today. And so would any child of ours be, biological or not.” He kisses the side of Stiles’ face.

“But it’s nice to have the option.”

Derek pulls Stiles in, as close as he possibly can.

“It sure is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading!!! This has been so incredibly fun to write. And ten million thank you's to my wonderful beta @LarryOn, without whom this wouldn't have been remotely possible.


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